Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  Alexand looked at the Shepherd and nodded. “I hope so. Go ahead, Hezaki. Please.”

  Hezaki leaned toward Selm, brows drawn. “If you’ve done wrong, you must answer the Ser’s questions for your soul’s sake. Now, tell me, Quin—for your soul—what happened this afternoon?”

  For what seemed a long time, Selm gazed at Hezaki with a childlike mixture of faith and guilty reluctance, then he burst out, “Oh, Father, I did do wrong! The holy saints forgive me, I did wrong! It—it come over me like a dark spirit. It was . . . maybe it was a . . . dark spirit.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Hezaki assured him. “Go on. Tell me what happened.”

  Selm kept his eyes fixed on Hezaki, avoiding Alexand except for one flashing, fearful glance.

  “I was driving a load to the blue shelves. Nobody was around, except . . . well, then I seen the Ser there all alone looking down at the assembly lines. He—he was standing in the aisle I had to go down to get to the blue shelves.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Not . . . right at first. I . . .” He hesitated, his features inexplicably wrenched. “Ah, Father, I thought it was Jeron! I thought it was a Beyond Soul, standing all alone, waiting for me. I thought it was Jeron. . . .” He began to weep, coughing sobs that racked his body.

  Alexand stared at him, bewildered, and in some indefinable sense frightened. He turned to the Shepherd.

  “Who is Jeron?”

  Hezaki’s lined face was drawn, reflecting Selm’s agony.

  “Jeron was Quin’s younger brother, Ser. He . . . died.”

  Selm was trying to get himself under control, but Alexand didn’t press him. He was thinking of Rich, and he understood that agony now; he recognized it.

  “When did Jeron die, Hezaki?”

  “It was a week ago today, Ser.”

  Alexand closed his eyes. Only a week. A short span of days.

  After a moment, he asked, “Did Jeron resemble me?”

  “Why, yes, in some ways. He was older, but dark like you, and a handsome boy.”

  Selm was wiping his eyes with his big hands, the sobbing stopped now. “Pardon, Ser, I—I never used to cry like . . . like a little childer.”

  “Grief is nothing to be ashamed of, Quin. I’m sorry about your brother.”

  The Bond gazed at him in unabashed amazement, and Alexand hesitated. Selm had at least reached the point where he was capable of addressing him directly; he was reluctant to jeopardize that tenuous rapport, but there was one question that more than any other must be answered now. He wasn’t sure why; only a sensed conviction that it was a key.

  “I don’t want to open old wounds, Quin, but I must know. How did your brother die?”

  Briefly, there was a hint of that brute hatred in the man’s eyes again. Then he turned away abruptly.

  “I—I can’t tell you, Ser.”

  “You . . . can’t tell me?”

  “I can’t! Please, Ser, I can’t! He’d kill me, too, if—” He stopped, horrified at his own words, his eyes, filled with dread, moving slowly to Alexand’s face.

  “Who would kill you?”

  He turned away again. “No! I can’t—”

  “Who, Quin?” He put an authoritative edge in that.

  “I . . . the—the workgang . . . foreman. . . .”

  Alexand was jarred again with rage. Another trusted steward. But he masked the anger, keeping his tone level. “Did this foreman kill your brother?”

  The only answer was a choked groan. Selm’s hands curled into fists on his knees; he stared blindly at the floor, candlelight caught in the beaded sweat on his forehead, and Alexand realized he was again met with the barrier of fear.

  But he had an ally against it now. Hezaki needed only a look and a nod; he resumed his gentle interrogation.

  “Tell me, Quin; tell your Shepherd. How did Jeron die?”

  At first Selm seemed physically incapable of answering that, even for Hezaki, and when at length he did speak, it was as if he were in a drugged trance.

  “The . . . foreman gets black spells. Sometimes he—the dark spirits come over him, and he lets out with the charged lash. That day, Jeron . . . he was sick. He never should’ve made his shift that day, but he—he was saving up his free days. Remember, Father? He was . . . going to get married.”

  He paused to control another threatened onslaught of weeping, and Alexand wouldn’t have interrupted the narrative, except that part of it didn’t seem to make sense.

  “Quin, if he was sick . . . time taken out for illness isn’t counted against a Bond’s free days.”

  Selm glanced up at him and immediately dissolved into confusion. Alexand turned to Hezaki.

  “Why didn’t Jeron get a sick pass from the infirmary?”

  But Hezaki seemed as confused as Selm. “I—I don’t think they give . . . anything like that.”

  Alexand felt the anger surfacing again; more good management, no doubt.

  “Did Jeron go to the infirmary, Quin, when he realized he was ill?”

  Selm nodded, his gaze again fixed on the floor. “Yes, Ser. He come to Father Hezaki first, and he said he’d best go to the ’firmary. He saw Ferra Sang. She’s always kindly. But she said there wasn’t nothing she could do. She told him to stay off his shift, but he was . . . saving up his . . . free days.”

  “What was wrong with him? Do you know?”

  “I—I think it was . . . the lung fever.”

  “What’s that?”

  Again, Selm was reduced to confusion. Hezaki said, “Ser, I think you’d call it . . . new . . . newman? I’m sorry, I’m not sure of the word.”

  “Pneumonia?” Even as he said it, he expected Hezaki to shake his head. That couldn’t be it.

  “Yes, Ser, that’s what I’ve heard it called.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  Hezaki seemed embarrassed, hands fluttering in a palms-up gesture. “I . . . probably didn’t . . . hear it right, Ser.”

  “No—no, that’s not what I meant. Forgive me.” Alexand took a deep breath; his shoulder was aching miserably. “You heard very clearly, Hezaki.”

  Pneumonia. An anachronism; a disease so easily controlled, it had nearly ceased to exist except in association with acute degenerative conditions.

  Why was there nothing the kindly Ferra Sang could do for Jeron Selm when he went to the infirmary? Was it because the medicine to treat his illness wasn’t available? Because the money allotted to the purchase of medical supplies had been diverted to someone’s pocket?

  Selm had again sunk into that trance-like state, and Alexand felt an overwhelming reluctance at the necessity of forcing him to continue his bitter narrative.

  “Hezaki, I must have the whole story of Jeron’s death.”

  The Shepherd nodded and turned to Selm. “Quin? You were telling me about the day Jeron died. You said he took his work shift even though he was sick. What happened then?”

  Selm managed, finally, to respond, the words coming in painful spates.

  “We was on the same—the same workgang, Jeron and me. It was . . . before the noon stop. He was driving a full loader to the red shelves. There’s a bad turn before . . . anyway, he—he run into a shelf, and the loader turned over and everything come crashing down, and . . . and then the . . . foreman, he—the black spell come over him, and he started in on Jeron with his lash, and then with—with his fists. Oh, ’Zion, he wouldn’t stop! He kept on hitting him and hitting him, and—and finally Jeron went down. The loader—he hit his head on . . . he hit his head . . .” Selm doubled over, burying his face in his hands, his body shuddering with renewed sobs.

  Alexand left him to his grief, too numbed, too filled with impotent rage to ask or hear more. When at length he looked at Hezaki. he found him watchin
g him intently. Something in his eyes made Alexand uncomfortable. He didn’t understand it.

  “Hezaki, is this true, what he says of Jeron’s death?”

  “I can only say that I heard the same story from others of my flock who were there.”

  “There were witnesses, then?”

  “Only Bonds, Ser.”

  There wasn’t a hint of bitterness in his tone, and Alexand wanted to weep. There should have been.

  “If you can, question him further about this afternoon.”

  “I’ll try, Ser. Quin?” It was some time before Selm was capable of responding. Hezaki rose and went to him, resting his hands on his shoulders. “Quin, you said that today when you saw the Ser, you thought it was a Beyond Soul, that it was Jeron.”

  Selm nodded, swollen eyes downcast. “Yes, Father, I . . . thought it was . . . Jeron.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I . . . seen it wasn’t Jeron. It was . . . the Ser.” He didn’t even glance at Alexand, turning his look of abject appeal on Hezaki. “All at once, I knew who he was, and there he was—and . . . and Jeron was dead, and . . . the black spell come over me. I felt the breath of the spirits of Nether Dark, and—oh, Father, the Mezion have mercy on my soul, I—I lifted my hand against—to . . . to …” He covered his face again, rocking back and forth.

  Hezaki said gently, “The Holy Mezion tests his faithful to know the worth of their souls. Perhaps you had your Testing today.” There was a chant-like cadence in that, and Selm seemed to take comfort from it; his hands fell away from his face, although his gaze remained fixed on the floor.

  “Quin, Ser Alexand said that at the last moment you turned the loader. Is that true?”

  “I—I guess . . . yes. The Ser spoke to me. He shouted . . . something. Oh, Father, I never wanted to kill him. I never wanted to . . . to kill anybody. I only . . . I don’t know what I wanted. I don’t know . . . I don’t know. . . .” The words died with a whimpering sigh.

  The Shepherd looked at Alexand questioningly, and he nodded.

  “That’s enough, Hezaki. Thank you.” For a time the small room was a place of silence encompassed in the Bond’s desolation. “Quin?”

  Selm finally managed to meet his gaze, but only briefly. “Yes, Ser?”

  “Are many of the foremen prone to ‘black spells’?”

  “Not . . . like this one.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Oh, Ser! If he knew I told—”

  “He won’t know, and I can find out, but it would be better for you if I didn’t have to go through House channels.”

  Hezaki returned to his chair and sank into it. “Quin, you’d best tell him. He won’t betray you.”

  That assuaged Selm’s doubts. He swallowed hard, frowning down at his clasped hands.

  “He’s called . . . Fer Naylor, Ser. I—I don’t know his forename.”

  “The surname is enough. Now, I want you to take a vow.”

  Selm stared at him. “A vow, Ser?”

  “A vow of silence. I want your word that you’ll never speak of what happened today, nor our meeting tonight, to anyone at any time. Will you swear to that?”

  Selm nodded solemnly, then turned to Hezaki in mute appeal, and after a moment, Alexand understood why.

  Hezaki shaped the vow into words for him.

  “Quin, swear this on the Holy Words and on the holy saints, who never sleep, and on your immortal soul. You will never speak of these things as long as you live to another soul living or dead on pain of eternal damnation.”

  Selm repeated the oath after him, word for word, and the last phrase put a cast of dread in his eyes that was still there when Alexand said, “Thank you, Quin. That’s all I ask. You may go now.” Then, at the Bond’s incredulous stare, “Yes. I know you tried to kill me, but I can understand grief. The important thing is that you didn’t kill me. I only hope such a . . . black spell never overcomes you again.”

  “Oh, Ser, I . . . may the Mezion smile on you in this world and the Beyond.” He rose and with a hasty bow stumbled to the door. But there he paused and said softly, “Ser, you are of the Blessed.”

  Before Alexand could even wonder at that term, he was gone, the door snapped shut.

  And now the toll of pain and exhaustion came home to him. He pulled himself to his feet, resting his hand on the table until the dizziness passed. At least he had his answers.

  “Ser, are you well?”

  Alexand only nodded absently to that. “I must hurry, Hezaki, and I haven’t the time—even if I had the words—to thank you adequately for your help and for all I’ve learned from you. You’re a man of true wisdom.”

  Hezaki bowed. “Ser, you do me honor.” Then he added, “Perhaps you’ll do me another honor—or grant me another boon. Let me go with you to the compound gate.”

  Alexand smiled. “I’d be grateful for your company.” And his protection. That was the real reason for this “boon,” but he didn’t force Hezaki to put that into words.

  10.

  Phillip Woolf stared out at the snow-shrouded lights, feeling in the silence of this incomprehensibly empty room the chill grip of fear. In his right hand he held the golden disk of his pocketcom, open, but for the moment forgotten.

  He turned, his eyes moving to the empty bed. He should have known. Something rang false about that accident. He should never have left Alexand alone.

  The soft buzz of the ’com brought his head around. “Yes, Ensing?”

  The image framed in the ’com was helmeted, a captain’s chevron on the scarlet cloak.

  “My lord, we’ve found Ser Alexand.”

  Woolf’s muscles sagged with relief, then tensed again in anger—at Alexand, for making his father suffer like a damned soul this last half hour.

  He asked levelly, “Where is he?”

  “He just left the plaza chapel in Compound A, my lord.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “He’s with the Shepherd. They’re on one of the radials headed for the north gate. He seems to be talking with the old man. I can’t see his face; he’s got his ’screen on.”

  Woolf nodded. “Keep your men out of sight, but someone must be close to Alexand until he’s out of the compound.”

  “Yes, my lord. Should we hold the Shepherd?”

  “Hold him? Why?”

  “Well, I just thought . . .”

  “Captain, didn’t it occur to you that he might be with my son at his behest? Unless the Shepherd makes a clearly threatening move against Alexand, he’s to be left alone. ’Com me when Alexand leaves the compound.” He snapped his ’com shut impatiently. His hands were shaking, but that didn’t surprise him.

  One son dying, and now for Alexand to take such risks—

  And there would be no more sons.

  Perhaps Elise was right in keeping it secret even from Alexand. Woolf closed his eyes. It had been such a heartbreaking blow to her. Even now he knew it was sometimes hard for her to believe he loved her too much for it to matter.

  Thank the God she wasn’t here now.

  The last report had been from a guard on the estate landing roof. Woolf sat in a chair near the empty bed, containing the anxiety and irrational anger that still threatened to erupt within him. It seemed an interminable length of time before he finally heard the whisper of the door opening.

  He came to his feet, but for a moment stood silent, staring across the room at his son, who looked back at him with a level gaze in which there was no hint of guilt or surprise; only a shadow of regret.

  Woolf’s anger dissolved. He crossed the room, stopping a pace from Alexand. The anger was gone, he realized, because he was suddenly aware that his son had crossed the line between childhood and adulthood tonight. The decision to embark on this solitary and dang
erous sojourn was an adult decision. The aftermath of fear was in his face; he had recognized the risks and found them worth taking.

  “Alex . . .” Woolf reached out to him, drawing him into his arms as if with that embrace he could hold on to that vanishing childhood.

  “Father, I didn’t want to worry you. Believe me, I didn’t want—”

  “I know, Alex, I know.” He felt the chill of his cloak; he was shivering, swaying on his feet, and Woolf’s concern shifted to the immediate problems of the broken bone, the sedative not taken, the exposure to cold.

  “Come, Alex. First, I’m getting you into bed, then I’m going to call Dr. Dall. Holy God, you’re half frozen.”

  “I—I know. That’s . . . one of the things . . . I must talk to you about.”

  Woolf turned the thermblanket to high, too distracted to make sense of that, concerned only with his son’s pallor, and the tension around his mouth that was an index of pain. But when Woolf reached for the intercom, Alexand stopped him.

  “No. Not yet.” He took a shaky breath and added, “Give me a few minutes first. Then you can call Dr. Dall.”

  Woolf didn’t argue further, but occupied himself with getting Alexand undressed and under the thermblanket. When this was done, he sat down on the bed beside Alexand. It was some time before the chill left him.

  Finally, Woolf said, “Well, Alex, I hope your venture was successful, whatever its purpose.”

  There was a shadow of grim memory in his eyes. “Yes, it was successful, but I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to be . . . concerned by it.”

  Woolf laughed. “So you thought you’d take a little stroll in Compound A, and by the time I returned, you’d be back in bed, sound asleep, and I’d never be the wiser. Well, you underestimated Dr. Dall’s conscientiousness. She came in to check on you about an hour after I left.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’d have had to tell you anyway. I . . . made an inadvertent tour of inspection tonight, and you must know about some of the things I saw and learned.”

  Woolf hesitated, on the verge of suggesting that those things might wait until morning, but said instead, “All right, Alex. Tell me about them.”