Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  It did not include the residence of the First Lord and his family. That was a separate wing known as the family wing, and its exclusivity was carefully—and literally—guarded; privacy was hard come by for a First Lord and those nearest him.

  The harried activity that made the halls of the residential wing so noisy today barely impinged on Alexand’s consciousness. He could muster no enthusiasm for the Concord Day celebration in the face of Theron Rovere’s departure. He felt an odd sense of isolation, as if he were surrounded by an invisible shell of silence within which he was insulated from all outside stimuli; insulated from regret, from pain.

  He didn’t wonder if he had purposely sought out his mother until he reached the doorway of the blue salon on the fifth level. There he stopped, watching unnoticed in the constant stream of servants and House officials. The salon had become a command post, as strictly efficient as any Confleet comcenter, despite its sumptuous Trimillennium period appointments, and although the Lady Elise Galinin Woolf, seated at a Shanidel rosewood desk, might seem far removed from a commander engaged in a complex and precisely timed logistics maneuver, she was exactly that.

  Alexand wondered how she managed it. How did she maintain her efficient calm? Rovere had been her tutor, too, and a close friend.

  But as Lady of the First Lord of the House, it was her duty to preside over all Estate social events, and the preparations for the DeKoven Woolf Concord Day ball were a staggering challenge in management and organization. There was no time for grief.

  At least five thousand guests would spend some time at the Woolf Estate on their traditional tours of the Concordia House balls after the public ceremonies in the Plaza. Nearly a hundred would also be staying the night: Lords and VisLords and their families from outside Concordia and, in some cases, outside Terra or the Solar System. Their entourages added five hundred more whose needs must be met, plus the three hundred musicians, dancers, and theatrotechs who would entertain the guests.

  Many of the guests at the House balls were Fesh; it was one of the few occasions on which the two classes mixed socially. Treasured éclats, those invitations, Alexand knew; he’d seen those received by Mistra Adith Thal, his mother’s dance instructor, preserved in plasex and proudly displayed on her dressing room wall. They were extended by all the Concordia Houses to Fesh of special distinction—scholars, scientists, artists, writers, and performers. Ranking officers in Confleet and Conpol were generally tendered invitations, too, as well as high officials in Conmed and other branches of the Concord bureaucracy and, of course, the Church hierarchy.

  Alexand smiled faintly as he leaned against the doorframe. His mother hadn’t noticed him, which wasn’t surprising with Estate Chamberlin Ernest Hayn, Entertainments Steward Martin Camil, and theatrotech Dedrik Sander hovering over her and voices coming intermittently from the three intercom screens before her on the desk.

  Her attention at the moment was on VisSteward James Cordel and the three Bonds with him, each holding swags of delicate, sparkling chiffeen of varying shades of gold.

  “The palest one, Fer Cordel,” she said. “And tell Master Rawlin the drapery—all the decorations—must be kept out of the way of the guests, even if it disrupts his décor. Yes, Marco?” This in answer to an insistent voice from one of the intercom screens.

  “My lady—disaster! It is terrible! We are undone!”

  She only smiled tolerantly. “What is the nature of this disaster, Master Marco?”

  “The champagne, My Lady! I asked for four thousand bottles of Shato Bord, and what do they send? Cornielle! An inferior wine!”

  “Now, Marco, it isn’t that inferior, and by the time our guests have made the rounds of the Estates tonight, I’m sure their palates will be too jaded to know the difference. What about the Mulier? You haven’t forgotten to chill it?”

  “Oh, my lady, of course not! Only once such an error should slip past me.”

  “The capons? Have they arrived? And the lobster?”

  “Yes, my lady, and they’re ready for the cookers.”

  “And the trays for the guest rooms?”

  “All prepared, my lady.”

  “Very good, Marco. You have the checklist. I want you to go over it now.”

  “But, my lady, I know it by heart. Everything is—”

  “Nevertheless, go over it again. Yes, Master Hayn?” She cut Marco off and looked up at the chamberlin.

  “Master Demret and the musicians have arrived, my lady. They’re checking the orchestron installation in the ballroom.”

  “Oh, marvelous. Is Master Demret satisfied with the arrangements?”

  “He seems to be.”

  “Good. Give him my regards and tell him I’ll talk to him as soon as possible. Oh—did you test the nulgrav levels on the dance stage? The ballet will be the finale of the indoor entertainment, and I want Mistra Liay and her dancers at their best.”

  “Mistra Liay hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll certainly check the nulgrav setting with her.”

  “Thank you, Ernest.” Then, as he departed, Camil and Sander began speaking at once. “A moment, Master Sander. Fer Camil, has the fireworks master and his team arrived?”

  He bowed. “Yes, my lady. They’re setting up in the ballroom court.”

  “They’re late,” she noted, with a glance at her watch. “Have the master consult with Demret on the timing. He’s in the ballroom now.” Then, when he departed, “Master Sander, the light display for the ballroom?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you, my lady. The installations are complete, and I’ve checked the sequences personally.”

  “Thank you. Oh—has Ernest left? I wanted him to be sure and check with Captain Sier about the landing roof guards. The first overnight guests will be arriving soon.”

  “I’ll give him the message, my lady.” Sander bowed himself out while Elise responded to a voice from one of the screens. Landin, apparently, about the flowers.

  “Don’t worry about the orchids, Fer Landin. Rawlin will need them for the tables, and roses and chrysanthemums will do very well for the garlands . . .”

  Alexand slipped out in Sander’s wake as three more House officials converged on the door. His mother would take time for him if he made his presence known; she was never too busy to welcome him. But he didn’t want to talk to her except in private now, and that was impossible. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to talk to anyone at the moment. His retreat was further hastened by a glimpse of Lady Rosann Woolf riding down the corridor pedway, flanked, as always, by a Fesh waitingmaid and two Bondmaid attendants. She was coming to “help” Lady Elise, no doubt. Alexand struck off down the hall in the opposite direction.

  The pedways and nulgrav lifts were swarming with Fesh and Bonds moving with hurried purpose, but he was hardly aware of them, still wrapped in his shell of silence. Once a flurry of awed comment aroused him. Lamino, Lady Elise’s clothier, riding the pedway with his coiffed head held high. He was on his way to the Lady’s salon with the gown she would wear at the ball. The gown followed, worn by Ana, Elise’s mannequin. She was a Bond privileged to wear that resplendent gown by virtue of the fact that her physical measurements exactly duplicated Elise’s.

  Lamino might well be proud of his creation: iridescent blue-green satina, subtly draped, simple lines to emphasize the magnificent fanning train, which was covered with a mosaic of peacock feathers. Alexand smiled briefly, thinking that the clothiers of the Elite should prepare themselves for a rush of demands for feathered gowns.

  He moved on, finding nothing more to hold his attention except one fleeting exchange caught in passing. Portly, red-cheeked Ferra Rona Hanly giving directions to a Bond with an armload of deep-blue delphiniums.

  “Carlo, those go to the Eliseer suite. And check the linens. Make sure they’re the blue with silver trim.”

  The co
ncern for color arose from Elise’s insistence on furnishing her guests’ suites with the colors of their House crests. Alexand had to think a moment before he remembered the Camine Eliseer crest—a winged horse, blue and silver. Eliseer’s Home Estate was on Castor, the less hospitable of the Twin Planets, where the House held a number of rare metals franchises, and the name caught his attention only because he’d heard his father speak of Loren Eliseer on several occasions lately. Phillip Woolf considered Eliseer a rising power, but Alexand didn’t realize that respect went so far as tendering him an invitation to be a guest of the House.

  But Eliseer’s status was of only passing interest. He moved through the bustling halls in his insulating shell, finding it a relief to reach the relatively quiet gymnasium complex high on one of the upper levels.

  In the first room a formal karatt class was in progress under the direction of Fesh SportsMaster Ton Kosai, known for his fierce discipline, which showed no hint of laxness despite the holiday. He was offering terse comment on a practice match while the rest of the class observed. His young students, though they meekly toed his stern mark, were all Elite. Pages, sons of VisLords or heirs of First Lords of minor Cognate Houses, sent to enjoy the prestige of an education in the Home Estate of DeKoven Woolf.

  Most of them were cousins of varying distance and, as Alexand passed, he exchanged the expected amenities, but he didn’t stop until he reached the door on the far side of the room. The sound/vision screens were on, but the guard switched them off at his nod. He passed into the main gymnasium, a high-ceilinged chamber flooded with light from the south windowall; the S/V screens went on again behind him, and he stopped inside the doorway. His entrance didn’t attract the attention of the only occupants of the huge room, his father and SportsMaster Fenn Lacroy; they were at the foils, totally preoccupied in a lightning-paced duel that was a game only by virtue of the soft tips and the low settings on the charged foils. Those blades, whip-thin tensteel, could kill with a touch if the charges were set at lethal maximum.

  “A point, my lord! And accepted.” Fenn Lacroy’s booming laugh echoed in the sunlit expanse as he acknowledged a hit, raising the guard of his foil to his forehead, then bringing the blade down to his side as he bowed. “We’re even, my lord, point for point.”

  Woolf laughed heartily as he reciprocated the salute and bow—the only occasion on which he ever bowed to anyone.

  “Indeed, Fenn. Point for point, but not for long. Garde!” He took the guard stance; the foils sparked as they crossed. “Ready?” Then, at Lacroy’s nod, “Allon!”

  The mock battle resumed with the clashing and shivering slither of metal on metal, the foils throwing off lightning flashes at every contact, the encounter circumscribed by a line of light in the resilient floor, a circle five meters in diameter. Both men were stripped to the waist, shod in soft-soled fencing boots, their faces protected with clear plasex masks. Their movements were almost too quick even for Alexand’s experienced eye; feint and attack, parry and riposte, remise on riposte, counterriposte, then attack on a lunge, counterparry on retreat. They were a close match, and Fenn Lacroy, Fesh or not, never gave a millimeter to his Lord, but Alexand recognized Phillip Woolf as master here, not by title, but by skill and grace.

  Lacroy going in with a quick flfèche; he was good at the running attack, his footwork always a wonder of precision, but that aggressive approach too often left him open to a fast riposte. Alexand knew Fenn’s weaknesses, but he had never bested him in a bout; the day he was capable of that he would call himself a true swordsman.

  “Ah!” Lacroy loosed that exclamation as Woolf’s foil struck his chest with a jolting shock on a coupe; the price of a split-second’s loss of balance. “A point, and accepted—and the match is yours.” He saluted and bowed, adding, “Well done, my lord!”

  Woolf took off his mask; he was breathing hard, as was Lacroy.

  “And well done on your part, Fenn. You keep me on my mettle.”

  “Then I consider myself a success. Another match—” He stopped and removed his mask when he saw Alexand at the door. “Ser Alex, good morning.”

  Woolf turned, studying his son’s face as he approached, then absently handed Lacroy his foil and mask.

  “Picking up a few pointers, Alex?”

  “Just admiring, Father. A good match.”

  “So it was. I’ll always be grateful to Fenn. Without him, I’d have succumbed to ulcers long ago. Tell me, Fenn, how is your student progressing?”

  Lacroy put on a stern frown. “Well, passably, my lord. He thinks he’s ready for a point of honor, but I have my doubts.”

  Alexand laughed and retorted, “I would be ready if you didn’t keep forcing me to fence left-handed.”

  “Good,” Woolf said firmly. “You’re too strongly right-handed. At any rate, calling points of honor is a game for VisLords.”

  “Oh? I seem to remember hearing about an encounter you had with the Lord Cadmon . . .”

  Woolf raised an eyebrow, not quite succeeding in repressing his smile.

  “That was when I was too young to know better.” Then he glanced at his watch and his smile faded. “I suppose I must prepare myself for the guests.”

  Lacroy asked, “A shower and massage, my lord?”

  “No, not here.” He crossed to one of the benches against the wall where he’d left his shirt and street boots. “Send Chapman up to my suite, Fenn.”

  “Yes, my lord. And you, Ser Alex? Are you ready for a match or two?”

  “All right. In a few minutes, Fenn.”

  Lacroy realized he was being dismissed. He hung the foils and masks in the racks on the wall, then started for the dressing room door.

  “I’ll find Chapman, my lord.”

  Woolf nodded. “Thank you. I enjoyed the match, Fenn.”

  “My pleasure, my lord.”

  Woolf sat down on the bench and stripped off his fencing boots, and Alexand waited in silence until Lacroy was gone, aware of his father’s intent scrutiny.

  “Alex, I’m sorry about Theron’s . . . retirement.”

  He said tightly, “I’m sorry, too, Father.”

  “And Rich—where is he?”

  “In the school.”

  “Alone?”

  “He seemed to want to be alone for a while.”

  Woolf concentrated on pulling on his boots.

  “Was he . . . upset?”

  “Yes. But he’s looking forward to corresponding with Lector Theron. He said you’d know his ’tape seq.”

  Woolf rose and shrugged on the full-sleeved shirt, still watching Alexand as he tied the laces at the neck.

  “I’ll go talk to Rich now. Damn this holiday. A hundred House guests and half of them relatives. What about you? I mean, with Theron leaving.”

  Alexand didn’t look at him. “I’ll miss him very much.”

  “So will I, the old gadfly.” He pulled in a deep breath, letting it out in a weary sigh.

  “Father, what was the Quiller thesis about?”

  Woolf’s expression didn’t change, but Alexand felt the sudden tension radiating from him.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I heard you and Mother talking in the grove yesterday.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  “Yes. I was there when you passed by. I simply didn’t make my presence known.”

  Woolf gave a short laugh, then sobered. “Then you know Theron isn’t retiring. Does Rich know?”

  “No.”

  “Thank the God.” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. “Alex, you must understand I couldn’t protect him. It was all I could do to keep him from being executed. I didn’t tell Elise that; she’s upset enough as it is.”

  Alexand felt a chill. It was incomprehensible, insane, that such a man might
have met that fate.

  “I know you did all you could, Father.”

  Woolf saw the pain hidden in his son’s face, and his inclination was to reach out to him, to hold him as he had when he was a child. But Alexand was no longer a child. They grow up too fast, Woolf thought, realizing with a faint shock that Alexand was almost as tall as he.

  “The Quiller thesis,” he said finally, “concerns the inception of the War of the Twin Planets.”

  “Why was it classified as subversive?”

  “For one thing, it was strictly factual. Quiller dug into old communiqués and Confleet orders, cross-checked dates and agreements. What he came up with doesn’t put the Concord in a good light. It shows that we broke certain agreements, and in fact made the first overt move.”

  “But that’s no great secret.”

  Woolf smiled bitterly, then began walking toward the windowall, Alexand falling into step with him.

  “No, it’s no great secret among the Elite, or even a few upper-class Fesh, but that isn’t the version taught in every Fesh Basic School. We’re less than a hundred thousand out of four and a half billion, Alex. The Elite—and the Concord—can’t survive without Fesh loyalty. So—” His shoulders came up in a quick shrug. “—we must be careful not to disillusion them, and that isn’t easy these days.”

  At the windowall, Alexand stared bleakly at the sprawling glitter of Concordia. The pervading hum of the city, a sound as incessant as surf on the sea, didn’t penetrate the ten centimeters of flexsteel-reinforced glass.

  Woolf went on irritably, “Quiller is a young man enamored of the great god Truth—or, rather, Fact. He decided all this was so important, every literate citizen should know about it. He tried to slip it through with a Pri-Four rating, and that was his error. The Board of Censors wouldn’t have objected so much to a Pri-Three.”