Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  “Remove him from temptation, so to speak?” Woolf nodded with satisfaction. “I’ll check his AQ file. Surely there’s some other type of work he’s qualified for. I’ll take care of it tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Father. What will you do about Kelmet?”

  At that, Woolf rose and crossed again to the windowall, hands clasped tensely behind his back.

  “I’ll remind him that a VisLord can also be removed, in a manner of speaking, from temptation.” He smiled coldly. “The Isidis plant. Bryn Woolf is a very astute man, you know; perhaps too astute to be wasted in the deserts of Mars. Of course, if I assign Bryn another estate, that would leave a vacancy to be filled.”

  Alexand gave a brief laugh. “Kelmet in Isidis? Father, he’d never survive it.”

  “Which will give him something to think about. I’ll not tolerate his—” The door chime startled him. Dr. Dall. He said sharply, “Come in!”

  She spared Woolf a nod for a bow and a short. “My lord.” and went straight to her patient, and it was a measure of Alexand’s physical state that he accepted her ministrations, including an enkephaline injection, without protest or even a single question.

  At length she arranged the covers around his shoulders, then reminded him, “My ’com sequence is set on the intercom, Ser. Just touch the emergency call button, and I’ll be here in a matter of minutes.”

  He only nodded, not even opening his eyes. She smiled at that, then turned down the light level and crossed to the windowall where Woolf stood waiting.

  “He’ll sleep now, my lord. Don’t worry about him. I hope you sleep well, too.”

  “Yes, I’m . . . sure I will. Good night, doctor.”

  When she had gone, he went to the bed and sat down beside Alexand; he didn’t wake. Strange, Woolf thought, in sleep the child was still so evident in his face.

  A tree must bend . . .

  What did he mean by that?

  Still so young. So much to learn, and so many of those lessons would be painful. Growing up is always painful. Or perhaps it isn’t growing up, but the necessary process of hardening. Perhaps they’re one and the same. He laid his hand gently over his son’s, his thoughts turning to the future. To Alexand’s future.

  Adrien Camine Eliseer.

  Elise was undoubtedly right about the daughter of the Eliseer. The only bride for Alexand. You know he won’t be satisfied with the usual simpering Ladyling. He’ll need someone like Adrien. . . . I diagnosed it as love on sight, Phillip, and I believe in such phenomena. After all, I fell in love with you the moment we met.

  It was too early for definite commitments, although in this case the political situation might make informal commitment at an early date advantageous.

  Love on sight. He smiled at that. Elise was too pragmatic to accept that in a literal sense, but she recognized the strong initial attraction existing between some people that, if disillusionment doesn’t set in, grows into love.

  And hadn’t he, in that sense, loved Elise on sight, too? He sighed, remembering her as his bride before the Altar of Lights in the Cathedron of Concordia. She was only seventeen, and political necessity impelled her into matrimony at that tender age. The marriage had already been arranged, but that premature finalization was precipitated by his father’s sudden demise; it was the House of Galinin’s statement of support to DeKoven Woolf’s new First Lord, only twenty-three and marked by most of the Concord’s Lords for inevitable failure.

  Yet he hadn’t failed, and he owed that to a great degree to his young bride, who found herself a First Lord’s Lady when she was little more than a girl, and whose predecessor, Woolf’s mother, Lady Matilde, abdicated in her grief and retreated to a Sisters of Solace convent, where she survived her husband by only five years. Yet Elise had met the challenge as Woolf had, and her faith in him had never flagged, nor his in her, nor their love for each other.

  And if Elise was right about Adrien Eliseer, if she might prove to be even half the wife to Alexand that Elise had been to him . . .

  Well, he could do this much for his son.

  Woolf rose and crossed to the door, pausing there to look back at Alexand. He felt an inexplicable chill, a premonitory sensation too vague to take concrete form.

  He turned away and slipped out into the salon.

  Nerves. Nothing more. It had been a long day.

  11.

  Alexand at long last felt truly at home. It was past midnight, and he was tired after the hectic flurry of homecoming and an evening of what his mother airily lumped under the heading of “socializing,” but here in the quiet of Rich’s room, he experienced a mental second wind.

  The separation had lasted only five days, yet it seemed much longer, and all through the evening, Alexand had impatiently awaited its end and this time with Rich. Dinner was served in the blue banquet hall in the residential wing, an “informal” affair with only six courses and sixteen guests. Phillip Woolf and his family seldom dined alone, and Alexand accepted the dinner and guests coming on the heels of their homecoming as a matter of course. His parents, he noted, accepted Rich’s absence as if it were also a matter of course, Elise lightly parrying the guests’ inquiries with the lie that Rich had caught a mild viral infection at the beach. The truth, Alexand knew, as she did, was that Rich was exercising his choice of seeking seclusion, and his parents could allow Rich that.

  Alexand didn’t have that privilege. Thus, two hours after his arrival at the Estate, he had donned dress attire and joined his parents at an oval table under the sparkling canopy of a Manela chandelier for an evening that met his resigned expectations for length and boredom. Even when the guests at last took their leaves, the comfortable rituals of retirement seemed protracted, especially with the Bond attendants—particularly Tuck, who had been Alexand’s valet since he was eight—so curious and solicitous about his injured shoulder. Even after they were sent away, there was Dr. Stel’s visit; he usually came to check on Rich before bedtime, but tonight he also gave Alexand’s shoulder a critical scrutiny. And upon his departure, Phillip and Elise Woolf came in for their last good nights.

  But finally they also departed, and Alexand, as was his custom, left his room, passing through the door into Rich’s room—the door that had never in his memory been closed—and here, with Rich ensconced in his bed, Alexand sitting cross-legged at the foot, the aureole of the canopy light making the bed an island of light in the warm silence of the room, they had spent the last two hours in wide-awake conversation.

  This, Alexand realized, was what he missed more than anything else in Montril. Only when Rich was too ill was this informal custom neglected. It began so far back in their childhood, he couldn’t remember when they hadn’t ended each day with this kind of dialogue.

  Tonight’s conversation was centered almost entirely on Alexand’s “accident” and his venture into the Bond compound. Rich seized hungrily on every detail, while Alexand patiently probed his memory for answers.

  “Alex, did Hezaki use the term ‘Nether Dark’?”

  “No, but Quin did. He said something about—‘feeling the breath of the spirits of Nether Dark.’ Where did you hear the expression?”

  “Harlequin. Apparently it’s the Bond version of hell. These dark spirits must come from Nether Dark, and Beyond Souls from—what did Harlequin call it? The Realm Beyond the Farthest Star. More poetic than the Orthodox Church’s Heavenly Realm, you’ll admit. Hezaki said people are infested with dark spirits?”

  “Actually, it was Quin who used the expression most, Rich, but that was the implication.”

  “An infestation results in ‘black spells’—insanity. Remember what Lector Theron said about insanity?”

  Alexand hesitated, surprised and relieved that Rich could talk about Theron Rovere so easily—or at least make it seem easy.

  “What in particular about i
nsanity?”

  “That primitive people invariably regarded it as a form of possession or infestation.” He smiled wistfully. “And he said the science of psychology notwithstanding, that’s a very pragmatic way of dealing with insanity.”

  Alexand nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

  “That foreman—Naylor—he must be insane. What else would make a man treat people that way?”

  “People? Rich, you’re talking about Bonds, and not everyone recognizes them as human beings.”

  Rich started to protest, then caught the teasing glint in Alexand’s eye. Still, his laugh was short.

  “Well, you and I can agree on that. What about Father?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I . . . I’ve had the feeling you’re holding something back; something to do with Father.”

  Alexand frowned, then after a moment rose and went to the windowall. A clear night; the sea of Concordia’s lights shone under a full moon whose wan light seemed a reflection of the city’s luminescence.

  “Rich, I’m not . . . holding anything back unless it’s something I don’t understand myself. Father was not only remarkably tolerant with me, but he took care of Naylor’s transfer the next morning as he promised, made an inspection tour of Compound C, and ordered an Internal Procedures investigation of the Montril plant.” He paused, smiling mirthlessly. “He also had it out with Kelmet. I wasn’t invited to sit in on that meeting, but Kelmet was a changed man afterward.”

  Rich laughed, but didn’t comment. He waited silently, and Alexand, still looking out at the city, finally said, “The Bond problem is a fact of life and nothing can be done about it. Maybe that’s it.”

  “Father said that?”

  “Yes. I had the feeling not only that he was wrong, but that there was . . . fear in it.” He walked back to the bed and sat down again; Rich’s eyes never left him. “But perhaps I was the one who was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That he’s right Rich; that nothing can be done.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, I don’t like to believe it.”

  “You don’t, really, do you?” Rich didn’t seem to expect an answer to that, but went on, “Actually, this is a case where the problem hasn’t been sufficiently identified. The Bond problem. And if you were wondering why I asked so many questions about your sojourn into that compound, I’m using you as a source.”

  Alexand raised an eyebrow. “A source? Of what?”

  “Information.” He hesitated self-consciously. “You see, I . . . I’m going to do a thesis.”

  Alexand looked at him, surprised at first; thirteen-year-olds didn’t aspire to theses. Then he smiled. At least, most thirteen-year-olds didn’t.

  “Rich, that’s . . . well, an ambitious undertaking, to say the least.”

  “I’m not really sure I can do it, but I want to try, and Lector Theron could—I mean, if I sent him the rough drafts maybe he’d offer comments or criticism.”

  Alexand nodded. “I’m sure you can count on the criticism, and you’d better have everything tidy and proper to the last word. So your subject will be the Bond problem?”

  “Nothing that ambitious. I thought I’d start with Bond religion. Remember, the last—on Concord Day, Lector Theron said something about how little research had been done on Bond religion? Well, he was right. I scanned most of the material in the University and Archives memfiles in a day. And the other sources—well, there’s only one, actually: the Shepherds. There aren’t any written sources. Apparently the Shepherds carry it all around it their heads and pass it down from one generation to the next purely by rote memory. Think of that, Alex. It’s incredible.”

  “If Hezaki is a fair sample, they’re incredible men. But how will you get at your sources? I hope you don’t intend to go into the compounds to talk to the Shepherds personally. Father will think I’m a bad influence on you.”

  Rich tilted his head to one side. “Aren’t you? But don’t worry. I thought I might bring the mountain to the Mezion, so to speak. I know Father won’t let me go to the compound chapels unescorted, and you can imagine how much cooperation I’d get from the Shepherds with a brace of guards standing over them. Anyway, I believe in the Galinin Rule: Leave them their religion. At least show proper respect for it, and I don’t consider bringing armed guards into a chapel at all respectful.”

  Alexand smiled and lay back on the bed, folding his left arm under his head. He was beginning to feel the drag of sleepiness at his eyelids.

  “So you’re going to have the Shepherds brought to you?”

  “Yes. The school room. The recording equipment can be kept out of sight, and if Father insists on guarding me, it can be done discreetly with monitors. It’s a comfortable and private place; I don’t think it would be intimidating to the Shepherds, and certainly I shouldn’t be intimidating. I’ll start with Father Adamis; Harlequin is in his flock, and he can make the first overtures for me.”

  “He’ll be a good liaison, and I wish you luck.” Then he added with a studied sigh, “ ’Zion, you make life difficult for me, you know. I mean, it’s hard to keep up with a little brother who insists on acting like a genius.”

  Rich smiled at that, but it faded at Alexand’s next question.

  “Has anything been said about . . . a new tutor?”

  Rich nodded, eyes flicking down. “Mother and I had a long talk about our future education, and she’s come up with a marvelous idea. First of all, she said there’s no use trying to . . . to replace Lector Theron with one tutor, so we’ll have specialists in various subjects, but she also thought we might augment our private studies with classes at the University here in Concordia.”

  That dispelled any trace of sleepiness; Alexand sat up, smiling in anticipation.

  “That would be great, Rich, and I doubt we’d have any trouble passing entrance tests for the basic courses. Unless there’s an age limit.”

  Rich was smiling, too, containing an excitement that seemed to make his eyes a deeper blue.

  “There isn’t. Mother checked that. And the spring session begins in two weeks. We may be too late to get some of the courses we want, but I think—”

  “Some of the courses? How many do you plan to take?”

  Rich shrugged. “Oh, only two or three to begin with, but there’s a sociotheology class that’s Pri-One for me. Simon Kimodo. Lector Theron talked about him, you know.”

  “Yes. Rich, will it . . .” He hesitated uncertainly.

  “Will it bother me to appear in public so much?” He took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh as he leaned back against the pillows. “Well, it would, Alex, and that almost stopped me until Mother pointed out that my crutches wouldn’t attract nearly so much attention if I weren’t Phillip Woolf’s son.”

  “If you weren’t . . . you mean, she’s suggesting you enter the University incognito?”

  Rich nodded, the light in his eyes rekindled.

  “Yes. Simply as a Fesh. The crutches would still attract attention, but—well, it would be different somehow. At least I think I could tolerate it that way.”

  “But don’t you think people will recognize you? How are you going to pass yourself off as a Fesh?”

  “Mother also pointed out that most people depend almost entirely on costuming for identification, and on expectation. And it’s true, you know. To begin with, most of the students and all the teachers at the University are Fesh, and where would they have seen me except on an occasional vidicom newscast? And always with the family, and always surrounded by guards etc., and trussed up in full regalia with boots and brocade. But if I were to dress as a Fesh, perhaps wear my hair a little shorter, and just go about my business as if I were a Fesh—well, maybe a few might think I look a lot like Richard DeKoven Woolf, but I doubt it wou
ld occur to any of them that I really was Richard DeKoven Woolf. A First Lord’s son playing a Fesh—who’d believe it?”

  Alexand considered that with an eyebrow raised. “Well, you have a point there, but you will encounter a few Elite at the University, and some of them you’ve met face to face and at close range.”

  That didn’t daunt Rich. “Yes, but there are very few Elite I’d know attending the University now, and I’ll just have to be careful to avoid them. Besides, most Elite don’t really look at Fesh or Bonds. I’ll bet even you could put on a Bond tabard and slip into Uncle Ives’s suite and give him his evening bath, and he’d never know the difference. Anyway, I think I can manage to play the Fesh at the University. I’m going to give it a hard run, at least.”

  “Has Mother talked to Father about this?”

  “Not yet, but as she said, all he’ll be worried about is my safety, and that almost stopped me, too. I mean, what kind of Fesh goes about with Woolf guards in tow?”

  “But the two of you arrived at a solution to that?”

  “Mother did. I could be guarded from a distance. She said we have agents in Security who can all but fade into the plasment.”

  “Well, she seems to have the matter well in hand—as usual. Now if she can just get Father in hand.”

  “You think that isn’t ‘as usual,’ too? But I won’t do it unless it’s on my own terms, Alex. I . . . just won’t. And there’s another stipulation. No one in the house will know my Fesh pseudonym. Not even the family.”

  Alexand knew Rich was watching his reaction to that closely, and gave him not even a flicker of an eye.

  “Well, I can understand that. Your real identity could slip out and you’d be right back where you started—the Lord Woolf’s son. Besides, if no one can connect you with DeKoven Woolf, you won’t have to worry about any future theses expressing ideas that might be embarrassing to the House.”