by Wren, M. K.
The rhythm of his movements faltered. He recognized the danger of this line of thought and called up an epigra, reciting it silently to the steady chunking of his hoe.
Holy Lord, mover of stars, move my hand in thy will.
Mover of suns, move my arm.
Mover of worlds, move my body,
Maker of Order, align my thoughts.
Holy Lord, Author of Fate, make my Destiny;
I am thy body, I am thy arm, I am thy hand.
In the name of Gamaliel, sainted of the All-God.
Ahm.
He finished the thrice-three recitative, feeling the calm moving in his veins, feeling his body—bone, nerve, and muscle—working in harmonic consonance with his mind.
He would be ready. And the day was right; there was a clarity, a stillness in the atmosphere.
It would be today.
Yesterday there was a tension in the air; something that had no reasonable source, but it was there, and he took it as a sign; the time wasn’t right.
Today it was right.
27 Augus. Even the numbers were right. Except that it was the eighth month. But two was the number of sacred dualism, seven the number of the Wheel of Destiny, and together they totaled the alpha number nine, and eight added to that produced another alpha number, seventeen.
And the time—Terran Standard 14:00, the double seven, and local Castor Standard would be 13:00.
It was right.
He paused to survey his handiwork, the freshly turned earth clean of straggling grass, the clusters of daffodils stripped of dead leaves and blossoms, the buds and fresh blooms smiling around the creased trunk of the tree. There was something to be said for this work; there was satisfaction in it. But he had other work to do, and the Lord Selasis was not a patient man.
Hawkwood leaned on his hoe and opened the collar of his tabard, the white and gold tabard of a Church Bond. He wasn’t overly warm. He was only aware that the afternoon play period would begin in a few minutes.
His tawny eyes moved around the courtyard, somnolent in the afternoon sun, the dark pools of tree shadows cool and comfortable. On his right, behind the spaced row of trees, loomed the colonnaded walls of the cloister, screened, shadowed, inaccessible. Across the court was the school, and behind the windowalls, the impatient children, counting the minutes as he was. One end of the court was closed off with a row of low buildings, and behind him, the other end was fenced with a stone wall two meters high. It could be vaulted if necessary, but its gate was open during the day. Normally, a Church Fesh guard lounged there, but he had left his post hurriedly a few minutes ago, his destination the convent infirmary. They would diagnose it as food poisoning.
Hawkwood moved with unhurried steps to the next tree and its girdle of flowers. The pace of life at Saint Petra’s was leisurely. He prided himself on his ability to absorb the rhythms of the people around him as well as their mannerisms and accents, and so he moved at a slow, ambling pace that brought him to the next flower bed and ten meters closer to the Bond, Lectris.
A signpost, that Bond.
Hawkwood set to work again, feeling the resistance of the soil transmitted through the hoe and into his arms, but now his eyes shifted as he worked. There were four Bonds in the court tending the plantings, including Lectris. The other three were on the far side by the school.
The hoe sliced into the pinkish soil; it had a rich smell, augmented by the bleeding grass.
Lectris was busy at the foot of the next tree, pausing from time to time to look toward the nulgrav lift. She would be coming down with her novice attendant in a matter of minutes.
Hawkwood thought of the second novice as an attendant out of habit; a Lady is always attended, and one never appeared in this court without the other, and they seldom strayed more than a few meters from each other. But he was satisfied that the attendant wasn’t Mariet for the same reason he was satisfied that the other novice was the Lady Adrien.
Lectris had been the signpost pointing to these two novices. When they appeared, he ceased immediately to be a gardener and reverted to what he was trained for— a bodyguard. Hawkwood assured himself that one of the novices was Lady Adrien by planting minicorders in the lift, but VP indent was useless in determining which of them was his target. From the discreet distance he was forced to maintain, it was impossible to be sure which was speaking at any given time; the veils precluded that. And they were so nearly the same height, that means of differentiating them was also precluded.
But all things are Written. The means were given him.
Their height might be virtually the same, but the difference in weight was obvious in spite of the loose, shapeless habits; a difference he estimated at ten to twelve kilos. The Lady Adrien’s slender figure had always been her hallmark. No doubt her attendant was older, judging from her cautious, somewhat heavy-heeled gait.
The hoe broke the ground in slow, even strokes.
Nearly five months. The Lord Selasis might well grow impatient; it had been a long search. But Selasis knew no one else could have accomplished the task sooner, if at all.
Hawkwood took deep, spaced breaths, savoring the scents of earth and grass and flowers. It was almost time. He stopped and leaned on his hoe, bringing the ring on his right hand close to his mouth. It was a holy medallion ring that raised no eyebrows on a Bond’s hand; they were awarded by the Church for devoted service.
His lips barely moved. “Raymon, are you at the lock?”
He bent his head, apparently looking down at the ground, bringing the ring close to his ear.
“Yes, Master Hawkwood. I’m in the ’car; a dark red two-seater with an Order of Benediction insignia.”
“A few minutes, Raymon. No more.”
Lectris had stopped working entirely. The nulgrav lift was still empty, but Hawkwood trusted the Bond’s time sense. He resumed his hoeing, his eyes constantly shifting from Lectris to the lift.
Holy Lord, mover of stars, move my hand in thy will . . .
They were in the lift now, floating slowly downward, but the rhythm of his movements didn’t falter, nor did his hoe so much as touch one blossom. His shifting glances were as effective as a direct gaze. He saw the two novices leave the lift.
Mover of suns, move my arm . . .
They were talking together as they approached. He heard a soft laugh, and now Lectris propped his hoe against the tree and walked toward them. Hawkwood kept at his work, watching to see where they would meet.
It was just six meters past the tree where Lectris had left his hoe. Hawkwood scanned the courtyard; its only other occupants were the Bond gardeners. The gate was still clear. The guard’s replacement hadn’t arrived yet.
Mover of worlds, move my body . . .
Lectris and the two novices were talking; again, a trill of laughter, light on the warm afternoon air.
Hawkwood rested his hoe on his shoulder and ambled toward the next tree and flower bed, the tree where the Bond’s hoe was leaning. Lectris had his back to him.
Maker of Order, align my thoughts . . .
He moved with his shambling Bondman’s gait, unhurried and unconcerned. The tree would make good cover; there would be a few seconds in which the gun would be exposed. The grass was springy and soft under his feet.
Holy Lord, Author of Fate, make my Destiny . . .
All three of them were looking toward the school. A matter of seconds. The chimes in the cloister chapel would mark the time. He reached the tree, put his hoe aside, and knelt to break off the withered blooms. Only six meters; an easy shot. He worked his way closer to the grooved trunk.
I am thy body . . .
He must aim for the face. If there were a Conpol investigation, he must make sure her identity wouldn’t be obvious. And he must watch Lectris. He was probably armed.
T
he first bell-toned chime sounded.
I am thy arm . . .
He rose, his hand moving to his tabard. As the second tone sounded, his fingers closed on the laser. At the third, across the courtyard, the doors of the school rooms opened.
I am thy hand . . .
The flood of sound didn’t distract him. He brought the gun up, elbow braced against the tree.
In the name of Gamaliel, sainted of the All-God . . .
The beam hissed, a clean line straight to the mark. The blue habit billowed; the attendant novice reached out for her, falling under the plunging weight.
Ahm.
The children’s carefree shouts became shrieks of alarm, drowning the sonorous tolling of the chimes. Lectris stared at the fallen figure, face contorted with rage and grief. The brute power of the man’s agony radiated from him, and Hawkwood hesitated a vital half second, chilled to his soul.
Then the Bond’s hand flashed into his tabard, and Hawkwood broke into a run. The gate was still clear, the confusion centered behind him. He heard a strangled roar—Lectris.
“You! You stop! You killed her!”
Hawkwood fired over his shoulder; the beam cut across the Bond’s leg, and he fell with a hoarse cry. Hawkwood reached the gate, and as he ran thrust his gun into his tabard.
“You—killed her! You killed—”
Hawkwood jerked in a paroxysm of pain, clutching his arm.
The Bond—that damned Berserker Bond!
He dodged behind the wall, then ran down a narrow passageway between two buildings and across another open area, only dimly aware of the staring eyes of passersby. Another narrow passage. There was a storage building at the end of it. The door would be open.
The thirteenth chime rang in the distance as he plunged into the darkness and pushed the door shut behind him, grimacing in silent agony, while the shouts and pounding footfalls of pursuit passed.
Maker of Order, align my thoughts . . .
Thrice three he repeated the epigra until the pain was under control and his breathing settled to an even pace.
The wound wasn’t serious; he knew that even before he looked at it in the dim light filtering through the high windows. But any laser wound was painful.
At least the Bond had reassured him.
That Berserker’s rage reassured him. Lectris would have pursued him if he’d killed any of the nuns at random. The Bond was as highly trained as a guard dog, and pursuit would be an automatic response. But that potent agony was an intensely personal response. It was grief. Grief for his Lady.
There was no doubt in Hawkwood’s mind now that he had at last accomplished his mission. He’d found the Lady Adrien, in spite of her cloistered inaccessibility, in spite of the veils. He’d found her. And killed her.
The Lord Selasis could rest easy now.
And perhaps Margreta might . . .
The Writ of Destiny would be revealed in its own time, in its own way.
He went to a shelf, reached under the bottom tier, and pulled out a rolled bundle of clothing, then stripped off his Bondman’s garb.
A few minutes later, a monk of the Order of Benediction left the storeroom and walked with measured pace and bent, hooded head to the main lock of Saint Petra’s.
4.
“Loren, I’m really worried about Adrien.”
Loren Eliseer looked up across the sun-flooded salon. Near the windowall, where she could take advantage of the morning light, Galia sat working at her tribroidery frame. He didn’t reply to her comment; not with the Bondmaid hovering nearby, silently attentive to the task of pouring tea.
“Will you have sucros, my lady?”
Galia looked up irritably, then hesitated; the girl wasn’t the one who usually served their morning tea.
“No. I never take sucros.”
“Yes, my lady. My lord?”
“Five drops.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The stirring rod clattered in the porceleen cup, a small sound loud in the warm silence.
Sucros to temper the taste of Black Shang tea; an acquired taste, Galia had warned him years ago. He still hadn’t fully acquired it. Out of curiosity, he had once computed the cost of keeping Galia supplied with that special blend. Ten ’cords per gram.
Not that it mattered. Galia was Terran, and there was too much about life on Castor that was jarring to Terran senses. The Black Shang was important to her, as was the morning ritual of taking tea with her husband in the roof salon. It never occurred to him to deny her either.
He glanced at his watch with its double set of digits: 06:00 Helen Standard and 15:00 Terran Standard Time. The Bondmaid put one of the cups on the ebony and mother-of-pearl table next to Galia’s chair. She only glanced at it, her fingers moving incessantly, weaving the colored strands into airy intricacies. She seemed incapable of sitting with her hands still; they were always occupied at something.
The Bondmaid brought his cup and put it on the table by his chair, but he didn’t look up. He was mesmerized by the unceasing movements of Galia’s hands, and preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Galia was worried about Adrien.
He felt the now familiar, vague sickness; regret, anxiety, doubt. When will it end? He asked himself the question daily. There was no answer to it, nor to its corollary; How long can I tolerate an intolerable situation without giving way?
It had been two weeks since he’d had one of those ambiguous messages from Adrien. And nearly five months since the wedding.
Patience. She had begged for his patience.
She would have it. He had no choice in that. At least, she would have it as long as—
“Will there by anything else, my lord?”
He glanced up at the Bond. “No, not for me. Galia?”
“That’s all.” She paused, frowning slightly. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Jama, my lady. Karen took sick this morning.”
“I see. You may go, Jama.”
Eliseer heard the girl’s quick footsteps, the door opening and closing, but he was still watching Galia. There was a brittle tightness around her mouth and eyes that had become more marked in the last few months. She was worried about Adrien, but she didn’t begin to understand what she should be worried about.
She paused to sip tentatively at her tea, then gave a little sigh of annoyance.
“I hope Karen isn’t seriously ill. This girl hasn’t the faintest idea how to brew tea properly.” She put the cup down and her fingers resumed their incessant movements. “But, dear, I really am concerned about Adrien. This . . . this illness of hers. I just don’t know what to think of it. She’s always been such a strong girl.”
Eliseer felt the constriction in his throat, wondering who would be monitoring this conversation, wondering how long Adrien thought the ruse could be maintained.
“She’s recovering from her illness, Galia. Lord Orin assured us—”
“Oh, yes, I know, and I’m sure she’s getting the best of care. But I do wish Dr. Perralt hadn’t died.” There was a hint of reproach in her tone. “I’d feel so much better about Adrien if he were with her in Concordia.”
“I’m sure she would, too, and perhaps that contributed to her illness. His death was a terrible shock for her. She was very fond of him.”
Eliseer tasted his tea, then almost dropped the cup with the sudden tensing of his muscles, as he stared numbly at the saucer. When he realized he was trembling, he roused himself to get it under control, and looked across at Galia. The shock must have been apparent in his face. But she hadn’t noticed; she was too engrossed in her tribroidery.
“I suppose you’re right, Loren,” she was saying. “I really miss Dr. Perralt myself. I mean, Dr. Hermon is a very capable young man, but he is so young.”
Eliseer remained silent as she went on to discuss the relative merits of the two physicians. Her monologue was only a vague droning in the background of his thoughts. His whole attention was focused on the white saucer, and on the tiny disk resting in it.
He knew what it was, knew its ultimate source. Another message from Adrien.
Briefly, he considered how it came to be under his cup. The Bondmaid. What was her name? He’d been too preoccupied to listen; he couldn’t even remember what she looked like. And it was immaterial. He would make no effort to find out how the tape spool reached him. Adrien had warned him; he couldn’t risk—
“Loren?”
Galia was looking at him anxiously; the movements of her fingers had ceased. He got himself in rein and raised the cup to his lips. She wouldn’t see the tape spool; Galia didn’t look for the unexpected.
“Yes, Galia?”
“You look so pale. Are you feeling well?”
“I’m . . . tired. That’s all.”
The tense lines in her face softened. “I know, Loren. You’ve been driving yourself much too hard lately, and you have the trip to Leda tomorrow. I do wish you could put that off for a while.”
“I can’t, unfortunately, but perhaps after that I can take a little time off.”
“I hope so. You mustn’t let yourself get so exhausted.” She resumed her embroidery as she inquired, “Will you be talking to Lord Lazar about Galen and Coretta?”
“Possibly. I’m not sure yet.” He leaned forward to put his cup down and tucked the tape spool into his palm.
