by M. K. Wren
He shook his head. “The news will be on the PubliCom ’casts soon. You needn’t leave.”
“How did it happen, Father?” Again, the voice was his own, but Alexand hardly recognized it.
Woolf’s gaze moved to him, and the only light in his eyes came from the straying reflections.
“Evin was conferring with Alexis on some new power receptors. That’s why he was in Tycho; he and Marc. There was a Bond uprising: a serious one. Confleet was called in.”
Rich spoke for the first time; he seemed perplexed. “An uprising among the Ivanoi Bonds?”
Alexand noted the question, particularly the emphasis, but he was too numbed to consider its meaning. He turned to Lacroy and said quietly, “Bring my clothes, Fenn.” Lacroy moved away silently.
Woolf was saying, “Yes, Rich, it was among the Ivanoi Bonds. Fortunately, it didn’t spread to any of the other House compounds in Tycho.” He was preoccupied, already geared mentally to deal with the political aspects of this tragedy.
“But, how did—did Uncle Evin and . . .”
“They were killed by the Bonds during the uprising.”
“What? That’s impossible!”
Alexand moved now as Fenn returned with his shirt and street boots and cloak, and it was like coming out of a drugged sleep. His equilibrium was dysfunctioning. He was only vaguely aware of Fenn helping him as he pulled off his fencing boots.
What did Rich mean? That the deaths were impossible, or that they couldn’t have been caused by the Bonds?
Woolf seemed to assume the former interpretation.
“I know it’s painful, Rich, but it’s true. Alexand—” He turned and saw that he was already dressing. “Good. Hurry, please.”
Rich clutched at the towel, shivering in spite of the humid warmth of the room.
“How did it happen, Father? Where were they?”
“They were in the Ivanoi Estate, asleep.”
“In the Estate?”
“Yes.”
“What about the Lady Honoria and their sons?”
“They weren’t harmed, thank the God. The Confleet flagship is bringing them here to Concordia. They’ll be staying at the Galinin Estate.”
Rich closed his eyes. “Grandser—oh, Father, how will he bear it?”
Woolf knelt beside him, taking his hand. “Mathis is a strong man. He’ll bear it, Rich; he must.”
He nodded absently. “They were inside the Estate? Where did the uprising begin?”
“In one of the compounds; a guard station was blown up.”
“Was that what started the uprising? There was no violence before that?”
Woolf’s eyes flickered with annoyance as he rose. “I don’t think so. The reports are still incomplete. Alex, arc you almost ready?”
He nodded, fumbling at the sleeve fastenings of his shirt, and even with his mind staggering under the implications of the deaths, Rich’s questions commanded his attention. The insistence itself was enough to make him wonder—and enough to test Woolf’s patience in his distracted, tense mood. But Rich persisted.
“The compound where it began, was it near the Estate?”
“It was across Tycho at one of the smelters. No, it wasn’t near. I don’t understand—” He stopped; his hands flexed into fists, then relaxed. “We’ll discuss it later.”
“All right, Father, but you’d better give one possibility very serious consideration.”
“Rich, I said we’ll discuss it later.”
But Rich seemed oblivious to his reined impatience. “Father, please—there may be more to this than a Bond uprising. You must consider the possibility that someone was simply using the Bonds.”
Woolf stared at him, and Alexand froze. He had never seen his father unleash that cold, disdainful gaze on Rich.
“You may be sure,” Woolf said tightly, “that we’ll consider all possibilities, but at this point there’s no doubt that these assassinations are solely the work of your damned Bonds.”
Rich paled and turned away. “Of course. I . . . didn’t mean—”
“Oh, Rich . . .” Woolf knelt beside him again, strong hands gentle on his shoulders, and now there was only regret in his eyes. “Forgive me. I’m . . . not myself today.”
Alexand gave Lacroy a brief nod of thanks as he helped him into his cloak, relieved to see Rich muster a smile.
“I know, Father. Don’t be concerned.”
Woolf sighed. “We will talk about it later, I promise you, but right now Alex and I must go to the Galinin Estate. As soon as you can, go to your mother. She was very close to Evin.”
Rich nodded. “I’ll stay with her. Father . . . good luck.”
Woolf’s mouth was a grim line as he rose.
“We’ll need it. Come, Alexand.”
2.
It was only a few minutes past noon when Alexand returned, and he was vaguely surprised at that. The council of war at the Galinin Estate had occupied less than three hours’ time.
He had his chauffeur leave him on the private landing roof off the family wing. By now the other Estate entrances would be mobbed with reporters. Even here his arrival was recorded from a mobile vidicam ’car, but from the respectful distance imposed by the House guard aerial patrols. He spared the guard at the entrance a quick nod and strode down the corridor, ignoring the pedway as too slow, although his only objective at the moment was his own suite and a hot shower to loosen the aching tension in his muscles. His father wouldn’t have a moment’s rest until after the Directorate meeting tomorrow morning; he was at the Hall of the Directorate now occupied with preparations for the battle that would take place at that meeting.
It would be a battle for survival.
Three deaths out of all the hundreds of thousands that occurred this day in the Two Systems, three deaths might change the course of history, might strip Arment Ivanoi of its Directorate seat, might pull Mathis Galinin down from the Chairmanship because he had been robbed of a clear line of succession; pull him down from that chair he called so damnably uncomfortable, the chair he held so tenaciously because he knew the alternative if he surrendered it.
The alternative was Orin Badir Selasis, a man who cast the shadow of a third dark age across the Concord without even recognizing it simply because he was so much a product of the Second Dark Age.
And a man who fattened on disasters, Alexand thought bitterly. Selasis was ready for this one; ready to present his own candidate for the Ivanoi chair: Theo Reeswyck, one of his multitudinous sons-in-law. And ready to present a candidate for the Chairmanship: himself.
That would mark the downfall of Ivanoi and Galinin; Selasis as Chairman could—and would—see to that. And without their support, DeKoven Woolf was also doomed.
Above all, Selasis would make sure of that.
Alexand had been privileged to witness the Lords of the beleaguered Houses laying their strategy because his father considered it part of his training, and it had been a highly educational experience, observing the objective assessment of weaknesses and strengths, existing and potential power alignments, and means of shifting or maintaining them.
But there was more to it as an educational experience, and perhaps his father had also been aware of that. The image was imprinted in his memory. Until he died, it would always be mordantly clear. . . .
Entering Galinin’s private office a pace behind his father, the click of the closing doors startled him.
The Lord Mathis Daro Galinin, seated in the carved chair behind his desk in monumental silence, his eyes clear, not the slightest indication that he’d yet shed a tear. And Alexand knew he hadn’t.
In a chair near the desk, the Lady Honoria Corelis Ivanoi, regally at ease, her head with its mass of golden hair balanced gracefully on the slender column of her neck, her brown eyes as
clear as Galinin’s and as untouched by tears. But there was something in her eyes that was lacking in Galinin’s: a fierce determination lurking like a shadow behind the calm; a peculiarly female determination—the selfless fury of a mother defending her offspring.
Her hands rested motionless in her lap. Hours from a holocaust, from the terrors of an uprising that in itself should have set those quiet hands quivering. Hours from the death of her husband.
A marriage that had been more than a political and economic union; a union of love.
Alexis Ivanoi, a man Alexand remembered well because he was always remembered; a vibrant, able man, famous for his wit and charm, fired with seemingly limitless energy—the Lord Alexis was dead, and his widow, who had loved him, sat in dry-eyed calm, coolly contemplating the strategy of survival, and her white, graceful hands lay quiet like sleeping birds, bearing the only jewelry she wore: the rings of betrothal and marriage.
An education, indeed, there. In one shattering moment comprehension that all the years of instruction under his father’s aegis hadn’t brought home to him.
He would be capable of that one day.
“Ser Alex . . .”
He looked up, frowning. He had stepped into the anteroom with its twin doors opening into his and Rich’s suites to find Fenn Lacroy standing at Rich’s door. He seemed ill at ease, and well he might; his presence in the family wing was unusual.
“Fenn?”
“I—are you all right, Ser?”
“Yes. Quite all right, thank you.”
“I came to see if Ser Rich . . .” He paused uncertainly. “He seemed so upset this morning. I was worried.”
Alexand smiled now. Lacroy’s almost fatherly attitude toward Rich was always a source of reassurance. He touched the ’com button beside the doorcon. “Rich?”
A brief silence, then, instead of a verbal response, Rich opened the door. He looked blankly at Lacroy before his surprise gave way to a warm smile.
“Fenn—come in. Hello, Alex.”
Lacroy followed Alexand into the bedroom, his uneasiness still apparent, but alleviated by Rich’s welcome.
“Ser Rich, I know I shouldn’t bother you, but I—I was concerned.”
“I appreciate that, and you’re always welcome here.”
Lacroy’s broad, freckled face colored. “Thank you, Ser.”
“And I’m entirely recovered from the initial shock.” Rich looked over at his brother, who was unfastening his cloak, his expression brooding and preoccupied. “Alex, what about Grandser?”
Alexand hesitated, wondering how that question could be answered.
“Grandser is the Lord Galinin. He’s not a man to be shaken even by a tragedy of this magnitude.”
Lacroy nodded, then, “Ser Rich—your lady mother?”
“She went to the Galinin Estate to be with Lady Camma. Alex, you probably just missed her. She’s well, Fenn, considering the circumstances.”
“I’m glad. Uh . . . may I help you with your cloak, Ser Alex?”
Alexand shook his head, then frowned, distracted by a dull clink; something dropping on the marblex floor. He looked down, but Rich was already bending, his hand moving swiftly, then, as he straightened, going to his vest pocket.
“What was that?” Alexand asked.
“What? Oh, I just dropped my lightpen.”
Alexand draped his cloak over his arm. It hadn’t sounded as heavy as a lightpen.
Lacroy cleared his throat; he was suddenly pale. “Well. I . . . I’d better get back to the gym.” His eyes moved to Rich, oddly questioning and anxious. “If I can help in any way, please let me know.”
Rich smiled. “Thank you, Fenn. And don’t worry.”
Lacroy looked at him, but made no response except a mumbled, “Goodbye, Sers,” as he withdrew.
When the door closed behind him, Rich turned to Alexand. “Have the pieces of the disaster been put together?”
“That remains to be seen. Come, Rich, I need a shower and change of clothes. How is Mother—I mean, in truth?”
Rich followed him into his bedroom. “She’s bearing up very well, but then she’s not under immediate pressure like Father or Grandser; that gives her the privilege of weeping.”
Alexand looked around at him. The image of Lady Honoria’s calm face and quiet hands was bitterly clear. He sat down in a chair near the mirrored dressing room doors to pull off his boots, studying Rich as he eased himself into another chair.
“Rich, what about you?”
He shrugged. “I’m bearing up well, too. I haven’t really had time to accept it in personal terms. I guess that comes later—after the crisis. Alex, is it . . . hopeless?”
“Almost, but neither Grandser, nor Father, nor Honoria Ivanoi are easily put down.”
“Selasis won’t pass up an opportunity like this, and he’ll be using lethal charges. What are they going to do?”
Alexand rose. “Rich, give me a few minutes to shower, then perhaps we’ll take a walk.”
Rich only nodded. Neither of them had to spell out the reason for that walk, that it would take them out of range of potential monitors.
“Alex, Adrien called while you were at Grandser’s.”
He didn’t respond to that. He hadn’t allowed himself to think consciously about Adrien during the last three hours. He couldn’t and maintain the mental set for calculation demanded by this crisis.
Alexand turned, stopping as he caught an image in the mirrored doors: his own half-naked image. The ring gleamed on his mirrored hand. Two square stones set side by side; a ruby whose deep, liquid red rivaled the Mogok ruby of his father’s Crest Ring in color, and a polished square of black jade incised with the letters: ADeKW. Only hours ago he’d taken this ring from its case and put it on his finger, reduced to silence because he couldn’t adequately frame his feelings in words.
“What did she say, Rich?”
“She’d heard the news. She wanted to express her sympathy, of course, and . . . well, wish us all luck. I taped the call; it’s on your comconsole.”
His eyes shifted across the room to the console. “Did she want me to call her back?”
Rich seemed stunned, and Alexand regretted his choice of words. He’d made it sound as if returning her call would be an obligation, a duty. But he didn’t try to explain.
Rich said, “No. She knew you’d be occupied with more pressing matters.”
“I’ll . . . call her tomorrow. After it’s all over.” He made an excuse for not looking at Rich by busying himself with undressing, giving him no time to comment. “Rich, you said something this morning, that Father should consider the possibility that there was more to these assassinations than a Bond uprising. What did you mean by that?”
Rich hesitated, his features tense with an uneasy frown.
“Oh, I don’t know, Alex. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that I’ve been studying these uprisings lately, trying to find a pattern in them. This didn’t seem to fit the pattern I thought I’d found. First of all, I was surprised that the Ivanoi were hit with a major uprising. Alexis was always exceptionally kind to his Bonds, and most of the uprisings have been in Houses where the Bonds weren’t treated so well. And there’s never been an attempt on the lives of the Lords. These are never true revolts; they aren’t organized or premeditated. They’re just eruptions.”
Alexand frowned at that. “Grandser said there were rumors that the Society of the Phoenix was behind this one.”
“No. I don’t believe that.”
The reply was too quick; Alexand’s eyes narrowed.
“Why not?”
“I just don’t think it’s that simple. Anyway, from what I’ve heard about the Phoenix, it’s a small organization without much punch behind it. Sometimes I wonder if it exists at a
ll. Maybe Conpol or the SSB invented it as a scapegoat for anything they can’t explain.”
“I find it difficult to credit them with that much imagination.”
Rich smiled. “You have a point, but I still don’t think the Phoenix is the culprit here. And, Alex, I’ve been watching the newscasts. There was a sequence at the InterPlan port in Tycho; the evacuation of the casualties. I saw a face I thought I recognized. It was a quick glimpse, and I can’t be sure, but the name flashed into my mind; a sort of intuitive reaction.”
“What name?”
“Bruno Hawkwood.”
“Hawkwood?” Alexand felt a whispering chill.
The Master of Shadows—so he was called in Elite, Fesh, and Bond circles alike, a man known, and feared, on all levels. Bruno Hawkwood was Orin Selasis’s Chief of Security, his master henchman, commander of a corps of well-trained shadow men like himself, spies and expert executioners. And Hawkwood was a member of the Order of Gamaliel, which added to his sinister reputation because it made him invulnerable to the tools of fear and greed he used so well.
Alexand’s jaw tightened. “It would be futile to check the passenger lists, of course, but perhaps Father could have his agents in Badir Selasis check Hawkwood’s movements in the last few days.”
“Which would be equally futile. Hawkwood never leaves tracks.” Rich sighed as he lifted his crutches and activated them. “And I’m probably imagining things. Or just looking for something to take the onus off . . . my Bonds.”
“Oh, Rich . . .” Alexand felt the pain in those last words. “Father was distracted and anxious this morning. Afraid, if he’s capable of that, for the House.”
Rich nodded. “No human being is exempt from fear. But creating scapegoats is dangerous. Conpol is making a scapegoat of the Phoenix, which means that in many cases the true criminals—the pirates and smugglers, for instance—escape undetected. And now the Lords are making scapegoats of the Bonds, and that’s a far more serious error.” He pulled himself to his feet. “The pond, Alex; the terrace below the rose garden. I’ll wait for you there.”
