by M. K. Wren
Alexand looked at his father questioningly. “He wanted to publish it as a booktape on the open market? That falls under DeKoven Woolf franchises.”
“If you’re wondering if I had anything to do with it coming before the Board, the answer is no. I didn’t hear about it until the judgment was passed.”
Alexand nodded. The publishing branch of-the House was run by his uncle, Ives, a man whose rigid morals always made Alexand question his ethics.
“Ives sent the thesis to the Board?”
“Yes. Then Theron stepped in claiming it as his own—after the Board passed judgment on it.”
Alexand stared out into the midday glare, his eyes aching with more than the light.
“What about Quiller? What will happen to him?”
“Nothing. It’s been assumed he laid claim to the thesis for exactly the reason Theron did: to protect a friend. He’ll be reprimanded by the Board, but that’s all.”
“Lector Theron must have felt very strongly about Quiller to sacrifice himself for him.”
“Apparently.”
“I . . . suppose he did what he thought was right.”
“I’m sure he did. Alex, I’m glad we had a chance to talk this over, and I’m bitterly sorry to lose Theron. But, as you said, he did what he thought was right. If he’s caused us any pain, that must be forgiven.”
“Forgiven.” Alexand considered the word, gazing out at the sun-jeweled city, but seeing the lined face of Theron Rovere with his patient, cognizant eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive. He did what he believed he had to do.”
Woolf was silent for a moment, and Alexand was roused by that silence. One of his father’s eyebrows came up almost imperceptibly.
“Unfortunately, Alex, an action taken out of one’s convictions isn’t necessarily good—or forgivable.”
He replied levelly, “No, but one must consider the source of the convictions, the kind of person holding them.”
“True.” Woolf smiled. “A point, and accepted.”
Alexand called up a smile in response, but couldn’t hold on to it. He noted Woolf’s glance at his watch.
“Father, I know you’re busy now.”
“At least I should be,” he agreed with an annoyed sigh, but he made no move to leave. Apparently he had something more to say, but seemed uncharacteristically hesitant about it. He turned to face the windowall, hands clasped behind his back, then, “Alexand, you’re fifteen, and it may seem premature, but the time is coming when we must consider your marriage.”
Alexand studied him. “I know.”
It was strange that his father seemed more uncomfortable with the subject of his future marriage than he. This wasn’t the first time it had been broached, nor was it surprising that it came up now. The Elite were gathering in Concordia. The week of the Concord Day celebrations saw more economic and political agreements made and more marriages arranged than any other week in the year.
“Have you any specific candidates in mind, Father?”
“There are several possibilities; you know that. I hope you also understand that I’ll make no commitments at this early date. Still, we must begin to study some of the possibilities more closely.”
Alexand nodded, again feeling that curious sense of isolation. It was unlikely that any definite commitment would be made before he reached Age of Rights. There would be tentative explorations, and the promise of a union with DeKoven Woolf would be useful as a bargaining lever. But Age of Rights was a comfortable five years in the future.
“Father, why haven’t you and Mother had more children?”
He was a little surprised at the question himself: it seemed to come without conscious thought. Woolf’s surprise was obvious, and it was more than surprise. Alexand saw him go pale.
“I suppose it’s because Elise found it difficult to face having more children after . . . after Rich . . .”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” The grief always waited; it crouched in ambush to spring at unexpected moments. He forced it back—he’d become adept at that—and brought out a smile. “Am I correct in assuming I’m to meet a potential bride?”
“Yes.”
“What House? Desmon Fallor?”
“No, although Julia Fallor is still a possibility. You’ve met Julia.” It was a question, even if it had no questioning inflection.
“Yes. She’s . . . very attractive.” The adjective was bitterly apt for the daughters of the Court of Lords. That was their function: to attract mutually profitable political and economic unions. “And Fallor is a Directorate House.” This wasn’t the time to comment further on Julia herself.
“Yes, but that isn’t a prerequisite, although it might be desirable.”
“You’re considering a non-Directorate House?”
“Yes. Camine Eliseer.”
Alexand frowned. The Lord of Castor must be a rising power indeed if Phillip Woolf was considering an alliance by marriage with his first born. Camine Eliseer was a young House, established after the Fall of the Peladeen Republic. Not a likely candidate for a union with DeKoven Woolf.
He turned to his father. “Is it a controlling influence in the Centauri System that attracts you?”
“That and keeping Orin Selasis out of Centauri.”
Selasis. It was all but inevitable that Selasis would have a bearing even on this.
The House of Badir Selasis had held all extraplanetary transport franchises for eight generations and a seat on the Directorate for six, and, through all those generations, a bitter antagonism existed with DeKoven Woolf and Daro Galinin at one pole, Badir Selasis at the other, and the prize of the Chairmanship of the Directorate always in the middle.
And Alexand wondered for how many generations the name of Selasis had been universally evocative of fear and even loathing. Certainly it was true of this generation.
He couldn’t think of Lord Orin Selasis without remembering the black eyepatch; it seemed to sum up the man somehow. He had lost his left eye in his youth in a point of honor duel with Kiron Woolf, Alexand’s grandfather. What was revealing was that the patch wasn’t necessary; an artificial eye would make the loss unnoticeable. But Orin Selasis chose to wear the patch, and for him it was a symbol of a pledge of retribution. That Kiron Woolf was twenty years dead now didn’t diminish his fierce resolve. Only the downfall of the House of Woolf itself would satisfy that pledge.
“Then Selasis is trying for a foothold in Centauri?”
Woolf laughed caustically. “ ‘Stranglehold’ would be more apt, and the Selasids have been working at that since the Fall of the Republic.”
“He already has something of a stranglehold over D’Ord Hamid.”
“Yes, but Hamid can no longer claim to be the most powerful House in Centauri. Lazar isn’t the man his father was.”
Alexand restrained a smile. That was an understatement, particularly from Phillip Woolf.
“So Eliseer is putting Hamid in the shade?”
“And in the full light of Orin’s attention, and he’s been quite solicitous lately.” Woolf’s narrowed eyes were turned outward on the city, but his mental focus was inward. “There are some rather ironic aspects in that. Eliseer is a Cognate House of Camine, which has seen better days and never was a major House, but when the two new Centauran Houses were established after the Fall, Jofry Selasis backed Almor Eliseer for First Lordship of one of them.”
“The Selasids backed him? Why?”
“Because both the last and present Lords Selasis underestimated the Eliseer. They had Hamid in their palm, and they didn’t think Eliseer would survive. They were ready to pounce when the House collapsed and have Centauri all to themselves, except for Drakonis, who wasn’t strong enough to offer them a real challenge.”
“But that was thirty-four years ago.
”
Woolf gave him a wry smile. “It seems the Eliseer foiled the Selasids by flourishing. Loren Eliseer has done especially well for his House. Apparently he has an excellent intelligence system. At any rate, Camine Eliseer is in better shape financially than some Directorate Houses, and Lord Loren has put aside a respectable capital reserve and made good use of it. Lazar Hamid is deeply indebted to him at this point.”
Alexand frowned slightly at that. “I’d think Hamid would go to Selasis for money.”
“He would and has, but Loren Eliseer offered him loans at a substantially lower interest rate.”
“I see. But what about Drakonis? Isador Drakonis seems to have flourished, too, and he’s certainly not in the Selasid palm.”
Woolf nodded. “For one thing, his income is derived from energy franchises; he isn’t dependent on Selasis for freight. And Isador is a very adaptable man. But I think he owes his survival to some extent to Eliseer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ten years ago Drakonis was desperately in need of capital to enlarge the power plants on Perseus, and he made the error of borrowing from Selasis. The note came due a few months ago. It was a very secret transaction. I knew nothing of it, and our intelligence system is excellent. Nor did Mathis, and the Galinin intelligence system is second to none. But Eliseer found out about it. Drakonis had his back to a wall; he didn’t have the liquid assets to meet the note, but, fortunately, Eliseer stepped in at that point.”
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.
3.
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.
