Sword of the Lamb (7 page)

Alexand nodded. “With another low-interest loan?”

“Yes. His profit margin on these loans is negligible, but the secondary benefits are incalculable. He blocked Orin’s gambit with Drakonis, and has Hamid indebted to him. He has mineral leases on ten thousand square kilometers of Hamid holdings, and three smelter sites on Pollux at this point. Of course it’s cheaper for him to put his smelters on Pollux; he doesn’t have to maintain habitat systems there. And there are rumors of a marriage between one of Eliseer’s sons and Hamid’s youngest daughter.”

Alexand understood now why his father considered Eliseer a rising power, and why the House wasn’t, after all, such an unlikely candidate for a marriage alliance with Woolf.

“How many sons does Lord Loren have?”

“Two. Renay and Galen. They’re only five years old now. Twins, by the way; appropriate for the Twin Planets. Actually, it’s a Shang tendency, the twinning. Eliseer married Sato Shang’s second daughter.”

Alexand frowned absently. “Father, you didn’t invite the Eliseer to the Estate to discuss a marriage.”

“No, of course not. For public consumption, he’s here to discuss an orthoferrite crystal synthesizing process his techs have developed. And it’s not just an excuse for our meeting. That process has a staggering potential for commutronics and compsystems. If he can get it into production, it will make Eliseer a major House.”

“If? What could stop him?”

“A conflict with Ivanoi’s ytterbium franchises. He needs a special grant from the Board of Franchises.”

“And he wants you to use your influence with the Board?”

“Yes. He’s offering me a long-term contract on the processed crystals at a very attractive rate.”

“Will you support him?”

“Certainly. He’s hemmed in with freight costs—his major markets are in the Solar System—and Orin is putting pressure on him. If he doesn’t get support from some of the major Houses, he’ll be forced into an alliance with Selasis. Orin is already making the first overtures toward a marriage between Karlis and Eliseer’s eldest daughter. The Eliseer are invited to the Selasid Estate this afternoon.”

“The same daughter you’re considering as my bride?”

Woolf laughed briefly. “The very same.” Then he looked at his watch again. “I must go if I’m to have any time with Rich. At any rate, tomorrow morning your mother is entertaining Lady Galia Eliseer and her daughter in the rose garden salon, and of course this will be—well, very casual.”

“Yes, Father, I know,” Alexand said with a faint smile. “No doubt so casual as to seem accidental.”

“No doubt. But I don’t want you to feel under pressure. The choice of your bride is a vitally important decision both for you and the House. An Elite marriage is, after all, a lifetime commitment—: ‘. . . and unto death.’ One doesn’t enter that kind of covenant lightly or without a great deal of consideration.”

Alexand nodded. “I didn’t expect you to bind me in the chains of matrimony this early in the game.”

Woolf gave that a brief, rueful laugh. “I think you’re far more sensible about this than Elise and I. We haven’t yet recovered from the realization that you’ve reached an age where we must consider such decisions at all.” He paused, resting his hand on Alexand’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about it further, but now I must be on my way.”

Alexand looked out at Concordia, listening to Woolf’s retreating footsteps.

. . .
and unto death
.

Next year, after his sixteenth birthday, by hallowed tradition, he would make the tour of Concord Day balls as the escort of the Serras.

He wondered who it would be.

Spotlights sent probing, multicolored shafts up from the Plaza of the Concord into the night sky, flashing on the firefly motes of aircars beading the invisible webs of the Trafficon grids. Alexand studied the scene through a flexsteel-reinforced window as the Faeton-limo sloped sedately down toward the Plaza. They were passing over the Cathedron, and Alexand, who had never stood in awe of the dogmas of Mezionism, was still awed by that magnificent structure. Its dimensions staggered conception, yet it was so elegantly proportioned, its reticulated arches and heliform buttresses leading so inexorably and perfectly to the culmination of its triple spires, that it seemed to rest weightlessly upon its massive foundations, especially when seen at night shining against the galaxy of Concordia’s lights.

The Hall of the Directorate loomed ahead, a white shaft that bespoke power and solidity, while the Cathedron suggested the ethereal. Yet there was power in the Cathedron’s soaring complexities, and grace in the Hall’s seeking lines; they had been designed by the same architech, John Valerian, and Alexand always thought it unjust that he hadn’t been rewarded with a Lordship for these creations of genius as Orabu Drakon had been for another kind of genius. But Valerian’s only reward had been his Guild’s title of Supreme Master—a title only he had ever held—and a solid niche in history.

The Faeton was descending over the Plaza now, a great rectangle five hundred meters long, one hundred wide, as light as day in the glare of helions, sparkling with floating banks of colored shimmeras, and brimming with close-packed humanity, the House colors of Bond tabards tending to broad, double-hued splashes interspersed with the more varied, and more conservative, colors of Fesh apparel. At least a hundred thousand Bonds and Fesh were gathered here—and, through the electronic eyes of vidicams, millions more at vidicom screens throughout the Two Systems—to see their rulers in splendid array, to hear the Lord Galinin himself speak, to partake in the blessing of the High Bishop, the Revered Eparch Simonidis, and especially to see the spectacular fireworks display that would culminate the ceremony.

The Hall and the buildings enclosing the Plaza’s longest sides were faced in glowing white marlite, windowalls mirroring the multicolored lights, the first-level promenades garlanded with flowers, the rows of ancient ginkgoes crowned with light. At the north end of the Plaza, the Fountain of Victory sent its arching jets in everchanging patterns fifty meters into the air, and at the south end, the wide tiers of the Hall of the Directorate’s steps served as a giant stage for the Court of Lords—the First Lords of the Thousand Loyal Houses—and their immediate families.

The cast was nearly all assembled, Alexand noted. The Woolfs would be the next-to-last arrivals; DeKoven Woolf gave precedence to no House but Daro Galinin.

On the second tier of steps at the front of this erstwhile stage, a podium was mounted, and from it hung a gonfalon bearing the crest of the Concord, the circled cross of the Mezion in gold on a background of black, with the constellation of the Southern Cross enclosed in the upper right quadrant. At one side of the podium, flanked by two lesser bishops, sat the Eparch Simonidis, dwarfed in a throne-like chair, weighted in jeweled miter and robes in the gold and white of the Church. Behind the podium was a short row of chairs, empty now, for the Lord Mathis Daro Galinin and his family; behind that a longer row for the remaining nine Lords of the Directorate and their families. They were filled, except for the four seats awaiting the Woolfs. Behind these, tiering up in rows of two hundred each, the families of the Court of Lords were seated, a sparkling mosaic of richly colored costumes. Behind them stood a rank of black-and-gold-clad trumpeters, instruments flashing like jewels, and lined against the white walls of the Hall were gonfalon bearers, whose bright banners bore the crests of all the Houses present. A glittering gathering, all the Lords and Ladies, Sers and Serras, in full panoply on this most important holiday of the Concord’s calendar.

Merchant princes, Theron Rovere called them; masters of dynastic cartels; living fossils.

Alexand frowned, concentrating on the scene below, noting the incongruous patches of black among the colorful raiment of the Elite: dress uniforms worn by young Lords serving their traditionally mandated four-year tour of duty with Confleet. That was something he had to look forward to at Age of Rights. Or, rather, to dread.

The Faeton floated down toward the open area in front of the podium, which was cordoned off by Directorate guards, their golden helmets like bright beads on a necklace. The trumpets flashed, and dimly, through the thick glass, Alexand could hear the polyphonic
Salut
. He looked across the passenger compartment at his parents, both gazing out the windows, his father bored and impatient, his mother displaying a lively curiosity.

Elise Woolf was resplendent, her hair an intricate crown of burnished curls and braids, her gown—not the peacock gown; that was for the ball—pale green satinet shimmering with crystal brocade, complemented by a full-length cape of
lapis
blue trimmed in sable. Phillip Woolf was attired in umber and ochre, his cloak fastened with loops of gold, dress boots adorned with gold chains, the doublet under the open surcoat rich with gold-threaded brocade. The latter served a purpose beyond decoration: the flexsteel strands woven into the design could stop a light laser beam or deflect a knife thrust. Alexand and Rich wore suits similar in style, including the protective brocade, but with the shorter mantlets, rather than cloaks.

The lead ’car, with its complement of House guards and gonfalon bearers, landed in front of the podium, and a few seconds later, Hilding, their chauffeur, set the Faeton down as lightly as a feather. Alexand turned, feeling an indefinable chill.

Beside him Rich sat stiff and mute, trying hard to hide his misery, but Alexand felt it as if it were born in his own mind. Rich was well aware of the curious stares his crutches attracted and looked forward to becoming the focal point of those multitudes of eyes with nothing but dread.

No one would laugh, not at the son of Phillip DeKoven Woolf. But they would stare. The curiosity would be there, and the pity.

Alexand found his mouth dry, his eyes burning. It wasn’t fair. Not Rich . . .

One of the guards opened the ’car door, and the blare of trumpets, the massed voices of the crowd, seemed to explode against his eardrums. Rich went pale, but when Elise paused to kiss his cheek before she stepped out of the ’car, he called up an uncertain smile. Woolf sent him an anxious glance as he followed his wife.

Alexand preceded Rich onto the landing area, restraining the impulse to close his eyes against the glare of light, and if he could, his ears against the onslaught of sound. From behind the barrier of Directorate guards, vidicam and imagraph lenses flashed avidly. Alexand didn’t offer Rich a helping hand, but he was close enough to reach him in a split-second. The ’cars whisked away, and the Woolfs mounted the first tier of steps beneath the podium, then turned, standing side by side, the scarlet-clad House guards forming a line behind them with a gonfalon bearer at each end. The ampspeakers blared, “
The Lord Phillip DeKoven Woolf and the Lady Elise Galinin Woolf, with their sons, Ser Alexand and Ser Richard
.”

A roar of applause and cheering followed, a concussive shockwave of sound. And Alexand wondered, as he always did, why they cheered.

Confetti and flowers thrown by the jubilant crowd showered the landing area and the tier of steps where they stood. Alexand saw his mother’s radiant smile as she leaned down to pick up a blossom, kissed it, then tossed it back to the crowd, where it was hungrily fought over, and the volume of sound increased. He held himself erect, looking down at the shouting, ecstatic, grinning faces. What did they see? Something bigger than life, the stuff of legends: the Black Eagle of DeKoven Woolf, and his fair Lady, so exquisitely beautiful in the white light, and their handsome sons.

Of course, it was too bad about Ser Richard. . . .

Woolf offered his arm to Elise, and the roar began to subside as they turned to mount the steps to their seats. The guards hadn’t yet realigned themselves, when Alexand heard a scream from the crowd behind him, and saw something small and dark fly past.

He ducked reflexively as the missile sliced close to his head, shouts of alarm and panic a meaningless assault on his senses. All he could think of was Rich.

He must not fall
. Alexand reached out for him, dimly aware of a sodden smash and his mother’s cry of surprise. Rich was off balance, staggering.

Alexand caught him, and at the same time, saw his father’s face, dark with rage, and his mother’s bewildered expression; not anger, only bewilderment and hurt. Rich was trembling, a tangible aura of fear emanating from him as he stared at the dripping stain on Elise’s cape.

Black against the
lapis
blue. An ink bomb.

Alexand concentrated on getting Rich balanced on his crutches, his mind reverberating with the shock of realization.

An ink bomb. A childish prank, and harmless enough, but that the Lady Galinin Woolf had suffered such an indignity was incomprehensible.

He felt something of his father’s rage then, and knew himself capable at this moment of violence against the person responsible for the hurt chagrin in his mother’s eyes and for Rich’s fear and embarrassment. The panicked crowd edging the landing area was on the verge of breaking through the cordon of guards. Reinforcements were moving in, some joining the House guards, and at Woolf’s command forming a protective circlc around his wife and sons.

But he didn’t join them. He strode to the edge of the tier and, coldly, regally aloof, surveyed the crowd. Silence moved out from him, every eye fixing on the Lord Woolf, standing in magnificent solitude.

“
Who is guilty of this outrage
?”

Alexand heard his mother’s quick intake of breath; fear for her husband standing isolated and unprotected.

An uneasy murmuring from the crowd, and again Woolf’s commanding voice rang out.

“My patience runs thin—
I demand an answer
!”

At length, individuals within the crowd near the landing area began to shift. An opening appeared, growing slowly wider, until finally one man stood alone.

The guilty one, Alexand realized. The others accused him not with words, but with fear, drawing away from him as if his guilt were contagious. A Bond wearing a black-and-gold Concord tabard; a young man, not yet thirty. He stood alone now as Phillip Woolf stood alone. But the difference was infinite.

Alexand’s breath came out in a long sigh. Seconds ago he’d been stifled with rage, but this man . . . what could he feel for this miserable human being awaiting his fate in a paralysis of terror except pity? It was a senseless, mindless act for which he stood condemned, something irrational in its triviality.

Woolf said not another word. He only glanced at the ranking Directorate guardsman and nodded. The officer bowed, gestured to another guard, and together they stepped into the crowd and seized the Bond.

“No—oh, no. . . .” The words were a whisper. Rich.

Woolf turned and rejoined his family, then, moving with calm deliberation, removed Elise’s stained cape, tossed it to one of the House guards, and draped his own cloak around her shoulders. This done, he looked at his sons.

“Are you all right?”

Alexand answered; Rich wasn’t capable of it. “Yes, of course, Father.”

The trumpets burst into shimmering fanfares, the prelude to the Hymn of the Concord. Two aircars were slipping down into the landing area. The lead ’car was purple with a gold lion crest emblazoned on its side; the Faeton-limo following it was black with the Concord crest, but it sported double banners, black and gold, purple and gold.

The Chairman was arriving.

A collective sigh swept the Plaza, tension dissolving as the massed voices took up the words of the Hymn. The glittering rows of Elite rose to add their voices, their relief at the diversion as patent as that of the Fesh and Bonds. Alexand found the distraction especially welcome; it made Rich’s passage up the steps to their seats less conspicuous. Finally, when the Hymn came to its end and the Elite ranks settled into their seats, Rich sank gratefully into his and put the crutches out of sight at his feet.

There was no cessation in the volume of sound. The Plaza reverberated with an ovation mounting to an awesome crescendo that nearly drowned the trumpet fanfares. On the first tier, Mathis Galinin, white-haired, white-bearded, a towering patriarch, accepted the deafening accolade with upraised hands.

The Chairman had arrived: the Lord Mathis, First Lord of Daro Galinin, Chairman of the Directorate, the ruling body of the Concord of the Loyal Houses.

But to Alexand—Grandser.

With him was his only surviving son, Lord Evin, Evin’s wife, Lady Marcessa, and their son, Marc, and daughter, Camila.

Rich was still trembling, but it was easing. He leaned close to Alexand to make himself heard.

“What will happen to him, Alex?”

Alexand didn’t have to ask whom Rich meant. The Bond. And he knew exactly what would happen to him.

“I . . . don’t know.”

“He’ll be executed, won’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“Why did he do that? He isn’t even a DeKoven Woolf Bond.
Why
, Alex?”

Alexand looked down at the cheering crowd, and it occurred to him that it was an equivocal entity, and perhaps something to be feared.

But that Bond . . .

Why
?

Some questions have no answers; at least, none the human mind is capable of encompassing. Those were Theron Rovere’s words. Alexand closed his eyes against the threat of tears.

But the human mind must always keep asking questions if it is to remain human. And those were also Theron Rovere’s words.

“I don’t know, Rich. I don’t know.”