Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  “First, I gave my word that no harm would come to the people I talked to.”

  “Then I’ll back it up, unless you were entirely outside the bounds of reason.”

  Alexand shook his head, frowning. “I can’t betray these people, but I will if you won’t honor my word. And I’ll betray them in another sense if I can’t tell you what happened—what is happening out there.”

  Again, Woolf didn’t argue. “Very well. I’ll honor your word even if you were outside the bounds of reason. But you must make me a promise in exchange—that you’ll never again break the rule and go into a Bond area alone.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll never go into a Bond area alone.”

  “Until you reach Age of Rights,” Woolf amended with a short laugh. “By then you should know better, anyway.”

  “All right. I . . . can promise that.”

  “Good. Now, tell me about your inspection tour.”

  He nodded, looking past Woolf to the windowall, eyes as cold as that night vista.

  “Some of it’s simply subjective impressions. The feeling that the Bonds were too quiet; too subdued. And the guards too arrogant. Some of it’s secondhand information.” He turned his head to look at Woolf. “For instance, in the Montril compounds it’s customary to count workdays lost to illness against a Bond’s free days.”

  Woolf raised an eyebrow. “That’s certainly not House policy. You said this was secondhand information?”

  “Yes, but I trust my source. The Elder Shepherd Hezaki. A remarkable man. I doubt he’s capable of falsehood.”

  “That would make him remarkable.”

  Alexand studied his father, then turned away with a nod.

  “You’d have to spend some time with him to understand or believe that. I also learned that the compound infirmary is apparently so short of medical supplies that it couldn’t—or wouldn’t—treat a Bond suffering from pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia? That’s impossible.”

  Alexand laughed caustically. “My words exactly. Impossible both that no help was available to the man, and that he should be suffering from pneumonia. I wouldn’t believe it either, except for certain facts I observed—personally—that make pneumonia reasonable in Compound A.” He paused, looking out past the windowall. “Father, the atmobubbles weren’t on in Compound A, nor I’m sure in any of the compounds. I doubt that A would be singled out for any purpose.”

  Woolf stared at him, groping for an explanation. “A malfunction. Something must have gone wrong . . .”

  “How long would it take to repair a malfunction? Long enough for snow to accumulate to a depth of a meter? And in the park the fountain was off and the pond frozen. That’s more than a malfunction, and so was the fact that only a quarter of the helions were on in the park.”

  Woolf felt the pounding of his pulse in his temples, the chill tension of anger that drove him to his feet and to the windowall. The snow was a silvery mist beyond the estate’s ’bubbles, and it had never occurred to him that the miniature cities beyond weren’t shelled with similar invisible protective barriers.

  This morning he’d checked the general accounts for the Montril plant, and now one figure was starkly clear in his memory: 1,680,000 ’cords; the cost of maintaining the ’bubble systems for 210 days last year.

  It could only be Kelmet.

  “Damn him! Damn him!”

  He turned and found Alexand watching him and realized he had already reached the same conclusion about the perpetrator of this insupportable fraud. Woolf took a deep breath; it came out in a weary sigh.

  “Elise was right, Alex. She never trusted Kelmet simply because she didn’t like him. I’ve never liked him, either, but I didn’t accept that as reason enough not to trust him.”

  Alexand nodded. “It isn’t enough; not in itself.”

  “I wonder. But corruption can’t be tolerated on any level, and the higher the level, the more dangerous it is.”

  “Father, there’s more going on in the compounds, but uncovering all of it will mean a thorough investigation.”

  “Yes. What else did you uncover?”

  “Only one other piece of . . . concrete evidence.” His mouth tensed. “I . . . I saw a rat in the compound.”

  “A rat!” Woolf stared at him and found himself again objecting, “That’s impossible!”

  “No, it’s only intolerable, and there’s no chance I’m in error. The creature was dead. I had a very good look at it at close range. I don’t know a great deal about rats, but I do know that if there’s one, there are many. And considering the other evidence of negligence, deprivation, and cruelty, this isn’t surprising.”

  The word “cruelty” stopped Woolf for a moment; it seemed too intensely subjective. He returned to the bed and sat down.

  “Well, I’ll have to change my schedule for tomorrow,” he said briskly. “The first thing on my agenda will be a personal inspection of Compound A.”

  Alexand’s eyes flashed up to his, reflecting both hope and gratitude, but that quickly turned to calculating doubt.

  “You’ll probably find everything in good order there if Kelmet happens to overhear this conversation.”

  Woolf laughed and reached for his hand. “I’ve never trusted Kelmet enough not to expect him to slip monitors into my private rooms. However, I do trust Master Dansig; he checked both our suites a few minutes before we arrived this morning.” As he spoke, he turned Alexand’s palm up and with his index finger drew the letter C.

  Alexand’s quick smile said he understood that silent message and knew Woolf intended to inspect compound C, not A.

  “Thank you, Father.” He lay silent for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I was thinking, if this kind of thing can happen here, in a DeKoven Woolf compound, what must it be like in compounds where indifference and neglect are House policy? Like Selasid or Cameroodo compounds, or Hamid and Fallor, Tesmier, Orongo—the list is endless.”

  “Well, not quite endless, but I suppose it must include a majority of the Houses in the Court of Lords. Mathis and Trevor Robek and I are rewriting our resolution for a standard of Bond treatment, you know, but I haven’t much hope for it.”

  “But don’t the Directors realize—” Alexand subsided with a sigh. “No. If they did, the resolution wouldn’t be necessary. Well, I admire your tenacity, you and Trevor and Grandser. I’m . . . proud of you.”

  Woolf smiled. “At least you know my intentions are good. Now, perhaps you should tell me why you went into that compound. It began this afternoon, didn’t it? With that so-called accident.”

  Alexand nodded, letting his head fall back into the pillow. “That Bond did try to kill me, but it was so badly thought out, it couldn’t have been premeditated, and the important thing was that he didn’t kill me. He was ready to crush me with that loader, but at the last moment he changed his mind. I saw his face, and he was suddenly . . . horrified, and he turned the loader. The turn was so fast it threw the load, and that’s the only reason I was injured.”

  “But, Alex, whether he changed his mind or not—”

  “I know. For perhaps ten seconds he was intent on killing me. Should a man die for a few seconds? If his case came before a court, the plea would be lapse of sanity.”

  “But his case won’t come before a court, and you—”

  “No, of course it won’t. He’s a Bond. But isn’t he also a citizen of the Concord? Why should Bonds be excluded from the Concord judicial system?”

  Woolf frowned slightly. “It’s up to the Houses to deal with Bond discipline, punishment, or grievances. That’s why we have Litigation Boards in every compound.”

  “But not every House has them, and what good are they to a Bond with a grievance if it happens to be against his Fesh overseers? The boards are manned by Fesh.”

  “Who would y
ou have man them? Bonds?”

  Alexand leaned forward intently. “No, that’s not—a Concord tribunal, not a House board. We must give them some meaningful legal recourse for their grievances; some recourse other than . . . He stopped and, as if suddenly aware of pain, sank back into the pillow, breath catching. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, Father, I seem to have lost track of my story. That Bond, Quin Selm—that’s why I went to Compound A tonight. I wanted to know the reason for that lapse of sanity. I had to talk to him on his own ground or I’d get nothing from him except more hysterical vows in the name of his saints that it was an accident. Even then I doubt I’d have had any answers if it weren’t for Hezaki. Quin would talk to him, even in my presence, but not to me. He was . . . afraid of me.”

  “Under the circumstances, he should’ve been. So the Shepherd acted as your liaison?”

  “He asked that boon of me. He also asked the boon of accompanying me to the compound gate, and I’m sure I could have walked through a crowd of rioting Bonds without a face-screen and been perfectly safe with Hezaki at my side. He has power over them we don’t; power over their souls.”

  “All the Shepherds do, and that worries me sometimes.” Woolf put that in as a reminder; Alexand spoke of that power with such naïveté. “Alex, we must always be concerned when power over the behavior of so many falls into the hands of so few. Now, what did you find out about Selm?”

  Alexand hesitated, for a moment distracted, then, “I found out why he tried to kill me. Quin had a younger brother, Jeron. They were on the same workgang. One day Jeron was ill—yes, he was the one who was told nothing could be done for him at the infirmary—but he decided to work his shift anyway. He didn’t want to lose a free day because he was saving them for . . . he was going to be married soon. He probably wasn’t functioning too well, or perhaps it was only carelessness; I don’t know. Anyway, he ran a full loader into a storage shelf and turned the loader over. I assume the damage was considerable, but should a man die for that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alexand’s tone turned remote and cool. “It seems the gang foreman—a man named Naylor—occasionally suffers what Quin calls ‘black spells.’ In other words, he gets heavy-handed with the charged lash and his fists.”

  “Fists? That isn’t allowed.”

  “You mean you don’t condone it, nor use of the lash except as a threat. At any rate, when Fer Naylor saw the results of Jeron’s collision, he was overcome by one of his black spells and proceeded to beat Jeron both with the lash and his fists. From Quin’s account, it . . . went on for some time. Until Jeron fell against the loader and hit his head. Apparently that was the immediate cause of death.”

  “Of death!” Woolf rose abruptly and began pacing, feeling caged with anger. Alexand was right; because he didn’t condone something didn’t mean it didn’t happen. But a man couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was Kelmet’s responsibility to maintain discipline among his Fesh, but what could one expect of a man who would profit by depriving the Bonds entrusted to him of warmth, medication, or basic sanitation?

  Then he frowned. Alexand was so thoroughly convinced about all this, it was hard to maintain any objectivity.

  “Alex, I’ll have to check this story. It may simply be a fabrication to excuse that Bond’s behavior today.”

  He turned when there was no immediate response. Alexand seemed to be resting, his eyes half-closed, and Woolf felt an unexpected sense of vulnerability in him. Still, there was a calm containment in his voice when he spoke, and a hint of acid irony.

  “How will you check the story? The records will undoubtedly show that Jeron Selm, Bond, died in an accident when his loader overturned. Anyway, it would never occur to Quin that his behavior today could be excused by any fabrication, and Hezaki said he heard the same story from other Bonds who witnessed Jeron’s death.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make it true.”

  “The Bonds wouldn’t lie to their Shepherd, and Hezaki wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Yes, I can be sure.”

  His left hand closed into a fist, and Woolf was at a loss to understand the taut charge in those words. He returned to the bed and took Alexand’s fisted hand in his; it was a moment before it relaxed.

  “All right, Alex. Assuming the story is true, then, how does it justify Selm’s attempt to kill you?”

  “It doesn’t justify it; it only explains it. Quin saw his brother brutally beaten, watched him die, too frightened to lift a hand for him, and that happened only a week ago. A week. How would we feel if Rich . . . how will we feel . . .”

  “Alex . . . please.” Woolf couldn’t tolerate that; not now.

  Alexand nodded. “I’m sorry, but understanding Quin’s grief is the key to understanding his behavior. At least, his mental state. Today he was driving along the aisles where he and his brother worked together, where Jeron died.”

  “And decided to avenge his brother’s death on you?”

  “No, Father. At least, not consciously. At first he thought I was Jeron.”

  “You were . . . but—”

  “I know, Jeron is dead, but for Quin that doesn’t preclude the possibility of seeing him. A Beyond Soul, standing there waiting for him. Then he recognized me and somewhere in his mind he made the connection between that foreman, who wears the crest of DeKoven Woolf, and me, the First Lord’s first bom. That’s when those few seconds of insanity occurred. He didn’t think; he only reacted—to his grief and bitterness. But the important thing is that he stopped himself, and that’s why I don’t think he deserves to die. He isn’t a violent man. He was only acting under emotional stresses beyond his control, and that could happen to anyone.”

  Woolf looked down at his son’s hand and sighed. “Alex, I . . . I suppose it was remarkable that the man could control his irrational impulses under those circumstances, but you must understand that I find it difficult to be forgiving when I think how close he came to killing you.”

  Alexand smiled fleetingly. “Yes, I guess it’s easier for me, since it was my life. I wouldn’t be so forgiving if I thought there was a chance he might put his hand to murder again, or if my forgiveness might inspire others to try it. But no one saw what happened today, and Quin took a vow of silence witnessed by his Elder Shepherd. I doubt even the SSB could get it out of him now. He believes he’s possessed of an immortal soul and liable to eternal damnation.”

  Woolf nodded absently. “Well, I’m glad you found the answers you sought, and especially glad you survived the quest.”

  Alexand’s eyes were heavy with his body’s need for sleep, and now he seemed nearer to surrendering to it.

  “I didn’t want to worry you, but I had to make the quest. And Quin answered some larger questions. I’m sure his case isn’t unique.”

  “The circumstances of his attack on you were certainly unique, and I should hope there aren’t too many more Quin Selms running about loose.”

  Woolf felt a tension in Alexand’s hand, and although his eyes were still half-closed, there was no longer any hint of somnolence in them.

  “But there are others. That’s the point; that’s the only meaningful result of my quest. These compounds are nurturing grounds for Quin Selms, and it’s a continuing miracle we’ve had so few uprisings.”

  “These compounds are exceptions in the House, and you know how they became ‘nurturing grounds.’ ”

  “Yes, I know, and I know most Woolf compounds are notable for their humanity, but the basic problems are present in our compounds just as surely as they are in Selasid or Camcroodo compounds.” He was leaning forward again, and Woolf found the hectic light in his eyes intimidating.

  “Alex, our House policy is to treat our Bonds fairly, but I can’t prevent or even be aware of every injustice suffered by any of the four
million Bonds allieged to the House, and certainly I can’t do anything about the Bonds in other Houses. Oh, Alex . . .” He was dimly aware that Alexand had withdrawn his hand. “The Bond problem is simply a fact of life, and nothing can be done about it.”

  For a long time Alexand didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe or blink, and there was something so achingly hopeless in his eyes that Woolf wanted to turn away.

  “No . . . that’s not . . .” He shook his head, his gaze fixed on Woolf’s face. “It’s a fact that something must be done about. A tree must bend . . .”

  “Alex!” He sagged into his father’s arms, breath hissing between his teeth. Woolf eased him back, frightened at his pallor; his forehead was sheened with perspiration even while he shivered with a new chill.

  Woolf reached for the intercom. He got an immediate response from Dr. Dall. She was on duty in the estate infirmary, but asked for only five minutes to reach the family wing. With a long sigh, Woolf switched off the intercom and studied his son. His eyes were closed now, but not in sleep; the new chill had quieted.

  Finally, he said, “Alex, I’ll do what I can about the facts you’ve brought to my attention.”

  Alexand opened his eyes and after a moment nodded. “I know you will, Father.” A pause, then, “What about the foreman?”

  Woolf frowned. “He’ll be something of a problem. I can’t call him to account for Jeron Selm’s death on the testimony of a Bond.” Then, before Alexand could protest, “You know it would never stand, and it would only rally the Foremans Guild to him, and I’d prefer to avoid another guild imbroglio. The Broadcasters Guild nearly shut down the PubliCom System last year.”

  “Calling Naylor to account for Jeron wouldn’t help Quin, either. It would probably get him killed.”

  Woolf looked at his son sharply, but couldn’t deny that possibility.

  “Have you any thoughts on dealing with Naylor, Alex?”

  “My first thought is to send Fer Naylor to the Concord, with our compliments, in the next tax conscript, but we can’t wait three months to deal with him, so I guess there’s only one thing to do: transfer him to another position where he has no personal contact with Bonds.”