Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  Elgreco.

  Phillip Woolf’s countenance was as elegantly aquiline as those long-dead Espanish lords immortalized by a forgotten artist’s hand; his hair was as raven black, his trim mustache and beard followed the contours of his mouth and chin in a similar manner, but his eyes weren’t the limpid black of Elgreco’s lords. They were the crystalline blue found at the heart of a glacier.

  Woolf didn’t respond to Elise’s exclamation; he seemed too preoccupied to hear it. Instead, he turned on Rovere.

  “Lector Rovere . . .” He paused, black brows drawn. “Damn it, Theron, I respect your scholarly ethics, but I cannot understand why you felt it necessary to take the defendant’s stand on Quiller’s thesis.”

  Rovere smiled gently, more for Elise than for Woolf. Mute sadness misted her eyes now, the quick anger passing like the spring rainstorm it evoked.

  “My lord, Quiller was a student of mine; I was his sponsor when he entered the Academicians Guild. He’s an excellent historian; a genius, in fact. His thesis may not have met with the approval of the Board of Censors, but it is impeccably researched and profoundly perceptive.”

  Woolf began pacing the small room, and Rovere was reminded of the leopards in the Galinin zoological preserve, rare survivors of a species nearly lost.

  “Theron, I’m sure Quiller’s thesis is perceptive, but why did he try to publish it under a Priority-Four rating? Why couldn’t he be satisfied to let it circulate among scholars on a Pri-Three? For the God’s sake, the Peladeen Republic is nearly forty years dead.”

  “True, my lord, but it existed for seventy-five years and functioned quite successfully.”

  “I’m well aware of that, but it’s a matter of indifference to me at the moment. Even if you believed in Quiller, to take full responsibility for his thesis, to call it your own . . .” He stopped, searching Rovere’s face. “You knew the inevitable consequences for you.”

  Rovere took a deep breath. “Yes, my lord, but I’m an old man. Quiller, as I said, is a talented young man. We need such men; the Concord needs them.”

  “And what kind of man is he to let you shoulder the burden of his error?”

  “An unhappy man, but I boxed him in very neatly. Don’t blame him.”

  “Then I’m left with no one to blame but you.”

  “True. So was the Board of Censors.”

  Woolf returned to the windowall, his mouth a tight line as he looked out into the grove. A stray shaft of sunlight caught on the Crest Ring on his right hand, flashing crimson from the depths of the great Mogok ruby, its table incised with the Eagle Crest of the House. Only a First Lord wore such a ring. He took it from his father’s dead hand and wore it for the remainder of his life until his first born son took it from his dead hand. Rovere thought of the thirteen Woolf Lords who had borne that blood-hued burden, and of Alexand, who would be the fourteenth.

  Lord Phillip’s thoughts were still on Quiller.

  “Independent Fesh,” he pronounced bitterly. “This is what comes of giving young zealots like Quiller too much independence. He hasn’t the maturity to foresee the results of his enthusiasm.” Then he turned and studied Rovere soberly. “I can’t shield you now; it’s out of my hands. If you’d come to me before the Board—”

  “No, my lord. I made my choice, and my only regret is that it might reflect badly on you or Lord Galinin, to whom I’m still allieged, however ‘independently.’ ” He looked at Elise, her spring-rain wrath now entirely dissipated. “No, I have two regrets. I’ll miss Alexand and Richard. Serving as teacher to them has been both a privilege and pleasure.”

  She turned away, tears shining in her cloud-colored eyes. “Oh, Theron . . . Theron. . . .”

  “Now, Elise, you mustn’t worry about me. Please. I’ll be treated well at the Detention Center. I’m sure your lord husband will see to that.”

  “Phillip, you will see to it? Promise me.”

  His glacial eyes seemed to thaw as he turned to her. Few people saw that tenderness in Phillip Woolf’s eyes; it was reserved for only three people: Elise and his sons.

  He said quietly, “I have seen to it. He’ll be treated with due respect. It was all I could do.”

  She sighed her relief, then a spark of anger revived.

  “And can’t you allow him a little time with the boys before he’s . . . taken away? I doubt he can contaminate their minds in a few minutes. I’ve detected no hint of corruption in nearly ten years.”

  Woolf sighed and turned to Rovere. “They’re waiting in the viewpoint pavilion. I intended to tell them myself that you’d be leaving them.”

  “Shall I tell them, my lord?”

  He hesitated, then, “What will you say?”

  “Not the truth. I’ve no intention of inflicting any gratuitous pain on them, particularly not on Rich.” He saw the fleeting shadow of sorrow in Woolf’s eyes. “I’ll simply tell them I’m retiring.”

  Woolf nodded mechanically. “Very well, Theron.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Elise . . .” He waited until she looked around at him. “Goodbye, my lady. Waste no tears on this old man. You’ve given me so much happiness, I wouldn’t like to think I repaid you with grief.”

  She mustered a smile that seemed to catch the spring sunlight and dispel the shadows in the room.

  “Goodbye, Theron. Go in peace.”

  The windwheels hanging in the trees chimed softly with the quickening of the breeze. The slate path divided. Rovere stopped and looked down the narrower walk to his right. It crossed a footbridge over a stone-strewn white rush of water, then wound a few meters farther to the glass-walled wing that had been his domain for ten years: the school.

  A single spacious room housing facilities for almost any endeavor from sculpture to biochemistry, with a comprehensive computer console, direct inputs to Concord University System and Archive memfiles—an array of education tools that would be the envy of any Fesh Basic School, and all for two students. But these were very special students, and the Concord could be grateful that Lord Woolf was so deeply concerned with the education of his sons.

  At least—Rovere sobered as he continued along the left-hand path—at least for Alexand.

  Alexand was the first born, heir to the First Lordship of DeKoven Woolf with its commutronics franchises and its seat on the Directorate, a virtually hereditary position. And he was the grandson of Lord Mathis Daro Galinin, who held all Solar System energy franchises as well as the Chairmanship of the Directorate, the most powerful man in the Concord of the Loyal Houses.

  And Richard, the second born . . .

  Rovere pulled in a long breath. Rich would never take part in the grand games of power. Not that he’d have a large part to play as the second born, a VisLord. Still, any son of DeKoven Woolf could make his presence felt in the half-feudal world of the Concord.

  But, at thirteen, Richard DeKoven Woolf was dying.

  It began with the epidemic that ravaged the Two Systems nine years ago; an aberrant virus striking with the terrible democracy of disease, cutting down Elite, Fesh, and Bond alike. Most of its victims died with the initial viral invasion, but Rich had the best medical care available, and he survived.

  His family’s relief at that was short-lived when it became apparent that the disease had unexpected side effects: it disrupted the chemistry of his neural system so violently that the damage was irreversible and continuing. His body turned upon itself, a kind of chemical cancer gradually sheathing the spinal cord with inert sclerose tissue, cutting off the vital electric link between brain and muscle. It began with his legs and worked its way toward his heart and lungs, day by day, year by year. But with good medical treatment, Dr. Stel assured Lord and Lady Woolf, Rich might live to Age of Rights. Twenty.

  The Woolfs took little comfort in that, either as loving parents or as First Lord and Lady of th
e House. It was a well kept secret, and Rovere was one of a trusted handful who knew the real nature of Rich’s illness.

  His measured tread brought him out of the grove onto a grass-covered hillock topped by a small, circular pavilion. Only here did it become apparent that the whole miniature forest, the streamlets, and the grassy hill were built on one of the roof terraces of the vast Home Estate of the House of DeKoven Woolf.

  From this point one could look down on this sprawling, multileveled edifice that was a palace in the sense of being a lordly residence, the citadel of a feifdom to which six million Fesh and Bonds were allieged, and an administrative complex for an industrial empire encompassing every aspect of communications throughout the Concord, including the PubliCom System vidicom network. Rovere could trace the Estate’s growth over three centuries in the materials comprising its sheer walls and jutting wings—from white marble to luminescent marlite—and in the variety of architectural styles, although it had a coherence of design that always amazed him in view of its long history.

  The Estate occupied a ridge forested with eucalypts and fernwood like an exotic extension of rock, and overlooked a small city that was an extension of itself. Tiered up the flanks of the ridge were the apartments of the Woolf Fesh, their opulence increasing in ratio to their proximity to the Estate. At the foot of the ridge was the commutronics factory with its huge, blank-walled assembly buildings and warehouses dominated by three fifty-meter beamed-power receptors. DeKoven Woolf wasn’t one of the landed Houses; it was an exclusively industrial House, and this factory complex was only one of fifty throughout the Two Systems.

  Beyond the factory were ten compounds, each housing ten thousand Bonds, and beyond them, stretching south as far as the eye could see, lay Concordia, the city of lights, capital of the Concord, governmental nerve center of the Two Systems, lying in the shadow of, but too vast to be overshadowed by, snow-flecked Mount Torbrek. The Woolf Estate was sited at the city’s edge, but was still part of it and only one of hundreds of similar minicities making up the grand whole; more than half the Houses in the Court of Lords had estates in Concordia, and many of them were Home Estates.

  And at the white, shining center of the city, encompassing the blue-green scallop of Phillip Bay, was the Concord administrative complex; five million Concord Fesh and Bonds lived and worked there. On this clear day Rovere could pick out the towering Hall of the Directorate and even the slender triple spires of the Cathedron.

  It was a vista to make one pause, and his pace slowed. It was the last time he would see it.

  The sound of laughter drew his attention to the pavilion. Rich sat on one of the benches lining the perimeter, looking down at a small chessboard, while Alexand stood with one foot propped on the bench, a hand resting on a chess piece. They were too intent to hear Rovere approaching, and he didn’t hurry his pace. He was thinking of a Post-Disasters artist this time. Kelly Song, whose portraits of Patric Ballarat assured his fame with the general public—or, rather, with the Fesh and Elite, who were exposed to Song in history textapes—but whose exquisite eye for composition assured his immortality among artists. Here was a composition for Song, these two figures arranged among the slender marble columns, the clear light casting barred shadows warmed with reflected colors, their shirts, with the full, gathered sleeves—the kind of sleeves worn by people who didn’t have to concern themselves with practicality—making strong, graceful shapes in white, foils for their dark heads and the elongated brushstrokes of legs encased in dark velveen. Alexand was wearing boots, Rovere noted; he wore them more and more often now. The mark of the adult male Elite. Or their military and police minions.

  Rovere was close enough now to hear their voices. Rich was saying, “Alex, you’re bluffing. You think I won’t trade queens with you?”

  Alexand laughed, and Rovere thought how different the quality of it was from his brother’s. Rich was still capable of the uninhibited laughter of childhood, but with Alexand there was a hint of constraint; it had always been there.

  “I think your king will be in check in another move if you do.” He studied the board a moment longer, then withdrew his hand.

  “But I have you now. Rook takes bishop and check; then queen takes queen and check again, and if your knight takes my rook, my pawn moves to the last rank and—”

  “Oh, ’Zion!” Alexand straightened and threw up his hands in mock resignation. “All right, I’ll concede, but don’t—” He stopped, aware of Rovere, the brief hesitation displayed by both boys indicative of surprise; they were expecting their father.

  “Lector Theron, good morning,” Rich said. He hastily folded the board, which made a box to hold the pieces.

  “Good morning, Rich. Alex, it sounds as if you were thoroughly outmaneuvered.”

  Alexand laughed and, like Rich, his surprise had given way to warm welcome. He asked, “Isn’t Father coming?”

  “No, he won’t be coming after all. Please, sit down, Alex, and we’ll get on with our lesson for the day.”

  Alexand moved silently to sit down beside Rich, while Rovere lowered his stiff-jointed bulk to the bench next to theirs. He studied them, feeling already the emptiness of loss. He’d never married or had children, and these boys were as dear to him as if they were his own.

  Both had the Woolf coloring: black hair and intense blue eyes, although there was an echo of Elise in the sensitive curves of Rich’s mouth and his deep-set, long-lashed eyes. He was slight for his age; that was the only outward manifestation of the disease when he was seated. But the nulgrav crutches were propped against the bench beside him, an ever present reminder.

  And Alexand, fifteen, at that turning point on the verge of maturity, the remarkable resemblance he bore to Phillip Woolf becoming increasingly evident, the aquiline planes, evocative of the Black Eagle of the House crest, emerging from the gentler contours of childhood. He had Woolf’s lean grace, too, even in the awkward midst of adolescence, this due in part to the rigorous physical training Woolf insisted upon as an integral part of his education. And already there was in Alexand’s eyes a hint of Woolf’s wary, aloof, faintly cynical cognizance of the realities of life.

  Rovere sighed. He would miss these boys—Holy God, he would miss them. Especially Rich.

  It had been his pleasure to make Rich’s life, short as it must be, as full as possible with the joys of the mind, and Rich had responded beyond his expectations. He had long ago closed the two-year age gap between himself and Alexand and in many areas surpassed him. Both were a teacher’s delight, curious and quick, a constant challenge. And he’d learned from them, learned something of the human potential for love in the sentient rapport between these brothers.

  Finally Rovere said, “Today we’ll have a short review of history; a verbal test of your understanding.”

  At that, Alexand frowned slightly. “I thought we were going into Drakonian physics today.”

  Rich laughed. “Alex has been doing extra work on that. He just wants to show off.”

  “Then he’s probably outstripped me, Rich, on that subject. No, today we’ll consider history.”

  Rich’s eyes lighted with anticipation; he’d assimilated Rovere’s interest in history and its sister study, sociology. To Alexand, all subjects seemed of equal interest, each a challenge to be overcome. But he was distracted now, more intent on his teacher’s face than on his words.

  He knew. Rovere sighed; somehow Alexand knew something was wrong.

  “All right, boys,” he began firmly. “I’ll give you a date, and I want you to tell me why it’s important.” He took a scriber and lightpen from a pocket in the voluminous folds of his robes and at the top of the screen wrote their initials. “A point for every correct answer. That is, the first with the correct answer. Ready?”

  Rich was leaning forward attentively. “I’m ready.”

  Alexand only nodded, putting his b
ack against the railing, his smile fading when he was out of Rich’s line of sight.

  “Very well, then,” Rovere said, “A.D. 1945.”

  Rich answered quickly, “The first controlled nuclear reaction. A nuclear bomb.”

  Rovere marked the point. “Very good. Which of the old ‘nations,’ as they were called, was that bomb used against?”

  “Uh . . . the States of Noramerika?”

  “Is that correct, Alex?”

  “No. It was used by the States of Noramerika against—I think it was called Japan. The islands held by the House of Matsune.”

  “Alex gets the point. Now, another date: 2030.”

  Rich took this question. “That would be the beginning of the Decades of Disaster. The Great Drought.”

  “And how long did it last?”

  “The Disasters or the Drought?”

  Rovere smiled. “Both.”

  “Well, the ending date for the Disasters is usually given as 2060. That was the year the last Prime Minister of Conta Austrail died. And the Drought . . .” That trailed out in a sigh, and Alexand took advantage of his hesitation to offer the answer.

  “The ending date for the Drought is 2040.”

  Rovere marked a point for him. “Correct. Of course, all Disasters dates tend to be rather arbitrary; we know so little about the period, really. One date we’re fairly certain of, though, is 2044.”

  Rich put in, “That was the Nuclear Wars.”

  “Yes, and how long did they last?”

  “I don’t know. Some textapes say three weeks, others say three months.”

  Alexand looked out at the city and noted absently, “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Weeks or months. With the kind of weapons they were using, days would be enough.”

  Rich nodded and added, “What a terrible time to have to live in. Or die in.”

  That was typical of both of them, that empathetic response, and something else that made them such remarkable students. Rovere had lectured for many University history courses, but seldom had he encountered students who so consistently saw dry history in terms of personal experience, and certainly few Elite students showed that capacity; their training so often tended to make them incapable of empathy.