Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  He looked ahead and saw a junction of ’ways, and felt the double thuds of his heartbeat against his ribs. Here was another unforeseen problem: the possibility of getting lost. He didn’t have time to wander aimlessly around the compound. His father wouldn’t be gone more than two hours, and Alexand intended to be back in his bed at the estate well before he returned.

  A moment’s consideration put the panic down. He must stay on this ’way. It was one of the main radials leading to the center of the compound, and that was his destination.

  And in fact, getting lost was the least of his concerns. He had only to stay with the crowds. The central plaza was also their destination; the dining hall was there. Beyond that, all DeKoven Woolf compounds built in the last three generations were constructed on the same circular, wedge-sectioned plan, including those in Concordia; a simple, efficient design adopted by nearly every House.

  But not all of them.

  Alexand looked out at the dormitories as he passed, solid blocks of buildings rising from the ground two levels below, looming another two levels above him, with veins of smaller ’ways connecting them with this moving artery. He was remembering a conversation between his father and Lord Lazar Hamid of Pollux overheard at a dinner at the Home Estate.

  “Really, Phillip, you’re begging trouble. Those huge dining halls, and parks, for the God’s sake. You give them too many places to gather.”

  Woolf had politely refrained from pointing out that D’Ord Hamid had suffered ten times as many Bond uprisings as DeKoven Woolf, but had noted that the cost of maintaining the centralized compounds was appreciably lower, and that, if necessary, the plaza areas could be isolated with shock screens at a moment’s notice.

  The pedway sloped gradually downward, and Alexand felt an anticipatory tension in the people around him. Still, their voices were oddly subdued. Perhaps it was his presence. Ahead, the buildings gave way to a wide clearing, the plaza park; he could barely see it for veils of snow, and the trees were only smudges of gray. His destination would be on the far side. The chapel.

  There were nine more chapels in the compound, he knew—Bond religion apparently resisted centralization—but the plaza chapel was always the domain of the Elder Shepherd. That adjective implied veneration won by wisdom and long years of service, and every Bond in the compound was considered part of the Elder Shepherd’s flock.

  And the Elder Shepherd was the one person in this compound who would be likely to know where to find a Bond named Quin Selm at this particular time; not only to find him, but to bring him to Alexand without arousing his suspicions.

  He pulled in a deep breath, letting it out in a brief white cloud. Shivering; he couldn’t seem to stop it. The ’way moved him inexorably past lighted windows casting glowing shafts at monotonously regular intervals. The plasment walls were tinted different colors, but they melded into a bleak gray. The artificial lights, perhaps, or the snow.

  The snow.

  His breath caught as shock tightened every muscle and sent spasms of pain down his arm and back. He’d been so preoccupied with himself, his purpose, his fears, that he hadn’t given the incredible fact of snow inside this compound a thought even while he shivered with the cold that fostered it.

  The atmobubbles should be activated.

  A mechanical failure. That must be it.

  He looked down over the railing. The ’way was only one level above ground now. The snow was piled nearly a meter deep against the walls. No mechanical failure would take as long to repair as it took that snow to accumulate to that depth.

  He closed his eyes. Dizzy. He waited until he was sure of his equilibrium, wishing desperately he could get off the pedway, could stop moving. Finally, he looked at his watch. Half an hour. He’d left the estate half an hour ago, yet it seemed half a day—half a night.

  The ’way angled down between single-level buildings built in long arcs to conform with the circular shape of the plaza. He could see the bottom of the ’way, the Bonds moving left to the dining hall. None of them chose to cross the paved lane circumscribing the park; their evening meals awaited them in the hall.

  He didn’t pause at the end of the ’way, but crossed the paving, finding it treacherously slick where the snow was packed by footsteps. When he reached the park, he stopped under a frost-rimed elm and looked back. Against the glow of the hall windowalls the Bonds were dark silhouettes, spacing themselves under the prodding of the guards into slow-moving lines at the entrance.

  He found anger as much a part of his awareness as cold now; it was a product of the cold. Why weren’t the ’bubbles on?

  The snow was unseasonable, so he and his father had been told, but, even if it were true, there was no conceivable excuse for letting these people suffer from this cold.

  Kelmet Woolf. Only he could be responsible for this.

  Fesh peculation was so common it had to be accepted as a fact of business. The rule of thumb was that for every ’cord of profit to the House, ten ’cords were lost along the way and channeled into various Fesh pockets. But subverting the ’bubble system was too large an undertaking to be carried out successfully by Fesh. It could only be done with the approval—or, rather, at the behest—of the highest ranking authority, in this case the resident VisLord. Did Kelmet think Phillip Woolf would fail to notice such blatant fraud?

  But the compounds weren’t included on the scheduled tour of inspection. Alexand had questioned his father about that. His time was short, the Fallor lease negotiations were his primary concern, and, although he had never liked Kelmet personally, he trusted him; he was a good manager.

  A better manager than Woolf realized, apparently.

  Alexand turned and set off down the path that bisected the park. His boots made a soft crunching in the white-and-gray solitude, his cloak flapped in the keening wind, and only the angry clenching of his teeth kept them from chattering. And with every step the light was dimmer. He thought at first it was because of the trees over the path until he passed a helion stanchion and saw that the light wasn’t on. Before he reached the center of the park, he determined that three-quarters of the helions were dark. More good management.

  He walked on in numb anger, wondering what other forms of good management Kelmet was indulging in to his own profit. He had hoped to keep this foray secret from his father, but he must be told; he must know how his trusted steward repaid his faith.

  Alexand was near the hub of the park now, an open expanse of white sparkling in the light of a single helion mounted above a frozen pond that should have sported a tumbling fountain. The wind had a longer sweep here, and he pulled his hood around his face, his pace quickening. But when he reached the pond, he stopped short.

  Something was lying in the snow near the path. Small and dark. He might have overlooked it if the light hadn’t caught in a brief reflection in its eye.

  He stood paralyzed not by cold, but by horror that was irrational in view of the size of the creature. Not as big as a cat. It was some time before he realized it wasn’t even alive. Frozen; the snow was slowly burying it in white.

  Alexand had never seen a rat, but he recognized this beast and understood his horror at it. A product and carrier of filth and disease, its presence here, so close to where people ate and slept, in this park meant for their pleasure, was incomprehensible.

  His stomach cramped with nausea; he began running, past the frozen pond, across the white waste beyond. It was only when he reached the trees that pain finally stopped him. He leaned against a black trunk, panting, every breath tangible in a puff of vapor, until finally he had the pain and himself under control.

  The chapel. He must find the Elder Shepherd.

  He’d come here for answers and no doubt he’d already found some of them, but he wanted Quin Selm’s answers.

  The chapel would accommodate five hundred people, but there were no more
than thirty here now, scattered among the pews, kneeling with arms crossed, hands resting on opposite shoulders in the attitude of prayer peculiar to the Bonds. Alexand paused inside the door, his shivering muscles relaxing in the welcome warmth that made his hands and face tingle with the rush of blood.

  The only light was that of candles, a soft, amber light that didn’t reach the curved vault of the ceiling. Along the side walls between narrow, arched windows in deep niches, were small altars, each banked with votive candles and surmounted by a crudely painted ikon of a saint. The main altar was set into an arched recess six meters in height and consisted of a raised dais with a long, high table against the wall; on the table was a row of tall tapers arranged in three groups of three. Enclosed in the arch above the altar, painted in the same primitive style as the saints on the side walls, was the image of Yesu Kristus, Avatar of the All-God, the Holy Mezion.

  Alexand stared transfixed at it. The Orthodox Church of the Fesh and Elite never employed visual images so realistic, instead relegating the Mezion to an abstract plane. There was power in this grim, unblinking figure, drawn within a radiant mandorla, zigzags of drapery folds delineating the form, large, black-outlined eyes staring out of an implacable face, both hands raised in blessing. This immutable image was paradoxically comforting; stern, demanding, omniscient, but still, and above all, just. This was, Alexand thought, the Mezion that Bishop Colona would have seen in his desert visions seven centuries ago.

  A Bond wearing the gold-colored skullcap of a chapel acolyte was finishing the lighting of the altar candles. Alexand walked down the center aisle, treading lightly in the intimidating quiet. When he reached the altar dais, the acolyte turned, then bowed, eyeing him a little warily.

  “Sirra? May I be of service?”

  Alexand kept his voice low, as the acolyte had. “Where will I find the Elder Shepherd?”

  He hesitated only briefly. “Father Hezaki is in his visitation room, sirra. This way.”

  He bowed to the image of the Mezion, then led Alexand to a door opening to the right of the altar. His knock was answered by an unquestioning invitation to enter, and the door slid open to reveal a small, candle-smoked room. One wall was solid with shelves of jars and bottles filled with leaves, seeds, roots, and powders. The Shepherd was, apparently, like so many of his fellows, a practitioner of herbal medicine. On the far wall under a painted ikon was a miniature altar decked with candles, and in the center of the room, a narrow table empty except for a battered relic of a tea brew. In front of the table were two straight-backed chairs, and behind it another.

  That chair was occupied.

  The Elder Shepherd Hezaki, tall, lean to the verge of emaciation, attired in a long black-and-scarlet robe and white skullcap; a shock of white hair and a long white beard; dark eyes looking out of age-creased sockets with penetrating directness.

  “Father, there’s someone to see you,” the acolyte said.

  Hezaki’s eyes shifted to Alexand, still standing outside the door in the shadows.

  “Show him in, Micah.” Then, when the acolyte stepped aside for Alexand to pass, Hezaki, realizing his visitor wasn’t Bond, rose and bowed respectfully.

  The Shepherd asked, “Sirra, may I be of service?”

  “I’d like to speak with you privately, Hezaki.”

  “Of course. Micah . . .” A single glance was sufficient. The acolyte bowed, to Alexand first, then to Hezaki, and slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

  Alexand said, “I hope Micah hasn’t a tendency to curiosity.”

  The Shepherd smiled. “He wouldn’t listen at the door, sirra, if that’s what you mean. I’m Elder Shepherd to these people, and they hold me in some respect.”

  Alexand accepted that as an undeniable and understandable truth. He pushed back the hood of his cloak and reached under the collar for the thin, metallic ring circling his neck. When the face-screen went off, he asked, “Hezaki, do you know me?”

  He didn’t—not at first. Then his eyes narrowed, and what Alexand thought to be fear, he recognized after a moment as concern. There was no hint of surprise or shock. He folded his hands and bowed from the waist.

  “You are Ser Alexand, the Lord Woolf’s first born.” Alexand went to one of the chairs in front of the table and sank into it. He kept his cloak fastened, the sling hidden.

  “Be seated, Hezaki.” He waited until the Shepherd resumed his chair. “I’ve come here to ask your help. Do you know a Bond named Quin Selm?”

  “Yes, I know Quin.”

  “Do you know where he might be now?”

  “Well, perhaps . . .” He paused. “Ser, may I ask what you want of Quin?”

  “I want to talk to him alone, to ask him some questions. I could have had him brought to me rather than attempt to come to him, but that would mean involving other people, and this is a personal matter.”

  The Shepherd was bewildered at that. “A personal matter between you and—and Quin, Ser?”

  Alexand gave him a purposely direct scrutiny. “You’re an inquisitive man, Hezaki.”

  He stiffened slightly at that pointed reminder, but still met Alexand’s gaze resolutely.

  “Perhaps, Ser, but Quin is one of my flock.”

  “He’ll come to no harm through me unless it’s in the form of just punishment. You have my word.”

  Hezaki nodded, apparently satisfied. “I think Quin is in the chapel now, Ser. At least, I saw him there a few minutes ago, and that surprised me. He must’ve come straight from his work shift without stopping for his supper, and Quin isn’t a man to miss a meal. Excuse me a moment.” He went to the door and called softly into the chapel, “Micah, is Quin Selm still here?”

  A short pause, then, “Yes, Father, there he is in the corner at the altar of Saint Kahma.”

  “Tell him I want to talk to him.”

  Alexand wondered what significance Saint Kahma had for a man who had almost committed murder, a man who gave up his evening meal to come to this chapel.

  The Shepherd returned to his chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds, his lips moving silently. He found solace in his prayer and new resolve; that was evident in his face when he looked up at Alexand.

  “Ser, may I ask a boon of you?”

  “You may ask, certainly.”

  “You said you want to talk to Quin alone, but perhaps you’d . . . let me stay. I swear by the Holy Word nothing I hear will go further.”

  Alexand hesitated. He hadn’t wanted a witness, yet he found the idea attractive. Selm might feel more free to talk in the Shepherd’s presence. He might also feel less free to make another attempt on Ser Alexand’s life.

  “Yes, Hezaki, I’d be grateful if you’d stay.” He paused, then, “Tell me, what kind of man is Quin Selm?”

  Hezaki considered the question, then shrugged. “Why, Ser, he’s a good man. His word is always proof, and it’s said he’s a hard worker and kind to his wife and children. Yes, Micah?” That was in response to a knock on the door; then, as the door opened, “Ah, Quin—come in, please. Thank you. Micah.” Alexand switched on his face-screen, turning as the door closed behind the acolyte, and at first he thought Micah had made a mistake; this was the wrong man. But there was no mistake. This face Alexand would never forget, but now, although his presence put some anxiety in it, neither hatred nor fear altered its contours.

  Alexand indicated the vacant chair. “Sit down, Selm.”

  The Bond glanced uncertainly at Hezaki, then went to the chair and sat gingerly at the edge.

  “It isn’t Hezaki who wishes to speak to you.” Alexand switched off his face-screen. “He called you at my command.”

  Selm went white, then slid out of the chair to his knees, rough hands raised in supplication.

  “Oh—oh, Ser . . . please! Mercy! Before the God, I never meant—I didn’t—
”

  “Quin, get off your knees!”

  Selm flinched at his sharp tone, then obediently pulled himself up and backed into his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and Alexand sighed. It was hard to remember that this frightened man—a good man, if Hezaki judged him well—had only hours ago been so clearly intent on his murder.

  “Quin, I’ve come here for some answers. If I’m satisfied, I promise you, no harm will come to you, but I must understand what happened today. I must know, Quin—why did you try to kill me?”

  He heard Hezaki’s quick intake of breath at that. Selm only moaned wretchedly, hands locked together, mouth working, but emitting no sounds recognizable as words.

  Alexand leaned forward, carefully restraining any impatience in his voice as he said, “Please, Quin, I have very little time. Don’t you understand? If someone you’d never even seen before tried to kill you, wouldn’t you want to know why?”

  Still no coherent response. Alexand tried again. “I backed you up this afternoon when you said it was an accident. Did you think I was so befuddled I actually believed that? I know you intended to kill me, but I let your lie stand. I let you live.”

  Rather than taking hope from that, Selm loosed a thin, despairing wail, his head sagged forward exactly as it had this afternoon under Phillip Woolf’s cold scrutiny, and it came to Alexand that he had the same power over this man.

  But he didn’t want that; there were no answers in that.

  “Quin, I let you live because at the last second you turned the loader. If you hadn’t, I’d be dead. I couldn’t believe you were an entirely evil man in the face of that, so I let your lie stand, and I came here to find out what kind of man you are, what made you decide to kill me in the first place, and why you didn’t after all.”

  He waited in hope of an answer, but Selm only stared at the floor, whimpering like a wounded animal, and Alexand recognized defeat. So many barriers overcome to get this close to the truth, but this, the barrier of fear, baffled him.

  “Ser Alexand, perhaps if I could . . . well, it might be easier for him to answer your questions, if . . . if I asked them.”