by M. K. Wren
3.
The air, made sweet with narcissus and rock daphne, had the crystal clarity peculiar to early spring. A gossamer wind tempered the afternoon sun and carried delicate scents up from the rock gardens bordering the pond to the sloping lawn where Rich sat watching the reflections of cumulus clouds wavering in the wakes of the swans. This year Elise Woolf’s prized flock had been graced with six cygnets.
He had suggested the pond because of the open lawn above it. His back was to the Estate, and beyond the pond was the edge of the terrace. No one could approach within a hundred meters without being seen. But now he wished he had chosen another place; the black swans would only remind Alexand of Adrien. Rich wasn’t sure why he was concerned about that, but he knew something was wrong and the reminder wouldn’t be welcome.
Alexand was walking across the lawn toward him. Rich watched him, thinking how much he’d changed in the last year. He’d grown taller, of course; he stood eye to eye with Phillip Woolf now, and the resemblance between father and son was almost uncanny and, to Rich, paradoxical.
The apprenticeship was still in progress, and daily Alexand became more the first born, more the Lord, even if he were still addressed as “Ser.” At least half his waking hours were spent with House business, either in learning processes, or in actual decision-making capacities. Only last week he’d been sent to the Martian PubliCom System center in Toramil to resolve a Guild dispute. With Alexand there were never any covert complaints from the Fesh because he was only a boy; most of them overestimated his age by two or three years. And Phillip Woolf was always notably pleased with his son’s decisions.
Except when it came to the Bonds.
That was their only area of disagreement, but it went deep, to basic policy and attitudes. Rich had been aware of that for some time, but a month ago he had witnessed one of those disagreements, one occasioned by a minor matter on the surface: the expansion of the compound guard at the Bonaires plant. Alexand had been flatly opposed on the grounds that more guards would only create more problems. His father was equally determined that they had no choice; the compounds had already sustained two minor uprisings in the last year.
It had been like a fencing match with the charges set low. Still, like any fencing match, there was a tacit understanding that the encounter was less than deadly only by mutual consent. And the Bonaires guard was enlarged by a thousand men.
Alexand stretched out on the grass beside Rich, bracing himself with one arm, his hand moving unconsciously to the medallion at his throat. Rich smiled to himself; he had overseen its design and casting to the last detail, and Alexand’s pleasure in its beauty and ironic symbolism had been ample recompense. On one side was a baying wolf, on the other a lamb. “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,” said the ancient prophet, and Richard DeKoven Woolf became Richard Lamb. It had seemed even more ironic when the Bond Shepherds began calling him Richard the Lamb.
Only one of them had ever known his real identity: Father Adamis. The secret was safe now; safe in death. Adamis died six months ago, and Richard Lamb had never appeared in a DeKoven Woolf compound.
Then Rich frowned, his pulse quickening.
The ring. Adrien’s birthday gift to Alexand—he wasn’t wearing it.
Something was wrong. But what? The change in attitude was all on Alexand’s part, and it had occurred within the last few hours. Since the meeting at the Galinin Estate.
Elise Woolf had more than once called Adrien Eliseer the only possible bride for Alexand, and they had, indeed, made a handsome couple at the Concord Day balls last year. The society reporters, as Rich predicted, called them “striking,” among more enthusiastic adjectives; they were already talking about a “marriage of destiny.”
Rich regarded it as that, and as Alexand’s only hope for happiness. He might look the part of a Lord and play it well, but there was too much about the role he found hard to stomach, and it would only get harder.
Rich turned his gaze toward the pond as he asked, “Who called the Directorate meeting, Alex?”
“Grandser—to save Selasis the trouble of mustering a Directorate majority.”
“Naturally Orin wouldn’t hesitate out of any decent consideration for grief.”
Alexand laughed caustically. “This is his golden opportunity. Galinin without a male heir, Ivanoi’s heirs only children. He won’t hesitate for the bereaved. It seems almost too fortuitous. That’s why I find the possibility that Bruno Hawkwood was in Tycho so interesting, but even if Orin is involved, you can be sure there’ll be no way to prove it.”
“He’s going for the Chairmanship, I suppose.”
“Of course, on the grounds that Grandser can’t offer a clear line of succession now.”
“And Ivanoi? I suppose his grounds there are that Alexis has no heirs past Age of Rights.”
“And no surviving brothers. He’ll try to unseat the House. Grandser’s already granted Lady Honoria a full regency, and there’s no one in the House to contest that. The question is whether the other Directors will agree that the regency includes the Ivanoi seat on the Directorate.”
Rich gave a short laugh. “Having a woman—especially one like Honoria Ivanoi—on the Directorate will shatter a few precedents.”
“I know. That will make it more difficult, and of course Selasis has a candidate to offer for the chair—Theo Reeswyck.”
“Reeswyck.” Rich sighed with disgust. “A logical choice—Orin’s eldest daughter’s husband. Alex, even if Grandser holds the Chairmanship, the balance of power will shift if Reeswyck takes the Ivanoi chair.”
“Yes. It could give Selasis the Chairmanship eventually, if not now. And I’m not a sociologist, but it takes no expertise to imagine what would happen to the Concord with Selasis at the helm.” He laughed bitterly. “Not to mention what would happen to Galinin and Woolf.”
“Can Grandser hold him off?”
“Possibly.” Alexand sat up, resting an elbow on his upraised knee. “Grandser’s chosen his successor to the Chairmanship. He’ll make the announcement at the beginning of the meeting tomorrow and pull Orin’s fangs on that issue at the outset. If the Directors accept that, he’ll have a better chance at holding the Ivanoi chair.”
“A successor? His brother Emil?”
“No, Emil’s not well, and that means his son Rodrik would fall heir to the Chairmanship within a few years. Orin’s probably hoping for that. Rodrik would never support him, but as Grandser says, he just hasn’t what it takes for the Chairmanship.”
“Then who will he name?”
Alexand laughed again, but there was no humor in it.
“Father.”
“Father? But—”
“The Lords,” Alexand said coolly, “tend to be dynastic thinkers. Genes are of inestimable value to them; a source of security. Incredible, isn’t it, Rich? If they accept Father as successor to the Chairmanship, it won’t be because of his qualifications for the position, but because it will mean the eventual succession of Mathis Galinin’s eldest grandson by his eldest daughter.” He looked at Rich with a sardonic smile that was chilling. “I’m the rationale for the gambit simply because I happen to be Elise Galinin’s first born. I’m the real successor. In theory, Father will be acting as a sort of regent until his death, at which time I, and my Galinin genes, will ascend to glory—and that damnably uncomfortable chair. And please don’t offer congratulations. I’m not up to that now.”
It hadn’t occurred to Rich to offer congratulations; he was too stunned. But after the first shock, he recognized it as an intelligent gambit. The genetic rationale would be convincing, and Phillip Woolf was Galinin’s only real choice not only in terms of ability, but because his succession would maintain the present balance of power. Galinin would probably make Emil heir to the First Lordship of the House, which would put Rodrik in the Galinin chair eventually, and ther
e he might even be an asset to Woolf as Chairman; Rodrik wasn’t a strong man, but he would offer Woolf no opposition and Selasis no support.
Rich managed a tight smile. “Grandser’s fortunate he had the foresight to wed his daughter to Phillip Woolf.”
Alexand nodded. “The blood link will be hard to argue down, especially for Sato Shang; he’s a particularly dynastic thinker, and his is one of the votes we must have.”
“Let’s see, Grandser has his own vote, Father’s, and I assume Robek’s?”
“Yes, Trevor can always be counted on.”
“Ivanoi will be out of it, I suppose, until Honoria’s right to hold the chair is voted. So Galinin has three votes and so does Selasis—his own, plus Cameroodo’s and Hamid’s. That leaves Shang, Omer, and Fallor on the fence.”
“As usual.”
“Any hint of how they’ll vote?”
“No, but Grandser has some idea what Selasis will be offering—or threatening. The problem was to come up with counteroffers and counterthreats. That’s what the meeting this morning was about. It was . . . quite educational.”
Something slipped past the controlled facade then; amazement or awe, and despair. But it was immediately masked.
Rich asked, “What’s the strategy, then?”
“Lao Shang we can probably hold. Orin will inevitably offer a cut in freight rates, but Shang’s a proud man; if he’s to be bought it must be on more subtle terms. Besides—” He glanced obliquely at Rich, “—Cameroodo’s techs have come up with a polyboron steel that would have a rather detrimental effect on Shang’s basic metals markets, but it hasn’t passed the Board of Franchises yet, and Grandser and Father have more influence with the present Board than Selasis. Sandro Omer could go either way. He’s trying to sell Selasis a new computer navigation system, which would be quite a lucrative contract if Orin accepts it. But, of course, Lord Sandro depends on Woolf commutronics equipment, as well as Ivanoi’s rare metals, and Galinin’s power sources.”
“What about Charles Fallor?”
Alexand stared at the swans in their silent passages across the water, and Rich waited tensely.
“Fallor. Well, he’s something of a problem since neither commutronics, rare metals, nor power are among his major costs in grain and cattle production. Unfortunately freight is one of his major costs, so Orin has a great deal of leverage with him. And then there’s Julia.”
Rich hesitated, feeling a premonitory chill. “Julia?”
“Yes, of course.” The words were clipped, charged with acid amusement. “Fallor needs a strong House alliance now, and Julia’s his hope for making one. Selasis is offering a marriage with Karlis. A perfectly matched couple, you’ll admit. Actually, Orin is rather free with the promise of Karlis’s favors. He’s also offering marriage contracts with Shang’s granddaughter, Janeel, and Omer’s daughter, Olivet.”
“What does Grandser intend to offer Fallor to offset Karlis’s favors?” Rich waited for the answer, dreading it. Alexand was too still, to all outward appearances entirely indifferent.
“Grandser had nothing more attractive to offer, nor does Ivanoi. But DeKoven Woolf does.” A brief, introspective smile put a hint of light in his eyes. “Rich, Father wouldn’t even suggest the offer until I brought it up. I know it occurred to him; it’s so obvious. But even with so much at stake, he couldn’t bring himself to voice it until I—” He closed his eyes, but only for a moment, and the light was gone. He looked at Rich and laughed. “At any rate, I consider my favors at least as attractive as Karlis’s.”
Rich stared at him, finding that sardonic smile beyond comprehension and the iron self-mastery nearly tragic.
“Alex, not—not a marriage. Not . . . Julia Fallor.”
“The possibility of a marriage. Father would go no further.”
Rich turned away, feeling a sick weight within him. He understood now, understood why Alexand had seemed reluctant to return Adrien’s call, why he’d removed her ring. And he had made the suggestion, offered himself, and tossed away—
Rich reached out and touched his brother’s arm, and wasn’t surprised that there was no response.
“Alex, if Father offered only a possibility, there’s still hope.”
“Hope.” He nodded mechanically. “Yes, and if Selasis wins both his battles tomorrow, it won’t make any difference. DeKoven Woolf won’t be in a position to make my favors attractive to anyone.”
Rich made no reply, and Alexand was silent, his eyes fixed on the swans; still, his expression didn’t change.
The face is a mask, Phillip Woolf had said, or a window. If you hope to succeed or survive, you’ll make it a mask.
But Alexand had never found it necessary to mask himself with Rich. This wasn’t a mask, it was self-induced emotional paralysis. A mask might be put aside, but not this.
Rich turned away, eyes closed, and on this day of grief his tears were for the living. Perhaps some candles should be lighted in the Bond chapels. Candles for Saint Elpha, guardian of those who walked under the Shadow.
4.
Admittance to the small gallery overlooking the Directorate Chamber was granted by personal invitation from a Directorate Lord, and only relatives or close friends were likely to be tendered such invitations. In consideration of the rank of its occupants, the gallery was luxuriously appointed, the ten chairs lining the curved railing richly upholstered. Alexand sat at one end of the row looking down into the Chamber, ignoring the only other tenants of the gallery, the Lord Theo Albin Reeswyck and his brother, Gamil.
When they arrived, there had been a brief exchange of amenities before they took seats at the opposite end of the row. Theo’s manner had been condescending, bordering on open contempt, but Alexand allowed himself no reaction to that except amusement. Reeswyck was here to witness his own triumph—his nomination to a seat on the Directorate—and the humiliation of Galinin, Ivanoi, and—obviously—Woolf.
Alexand looked down into the spacious, austere oval of the Chamber. The gallery was at one end, hidden behind the fine-meshed golden screen that lined the top half of the Chamber wall. Most of the right-hand curve was delineated by an expanse of windowall offering a spectacular view of the Plaza. Centered in the left-hand wall were double doors, three meters tall, of carved teak, and on the white marlite walls hung tapestries woven three centuries ago, transforming history into epics. To the left of the door, Lord Even Pilgram, with Bishop Colona apparently blessing the event, died dramatically at the Battle of Darwin. On the right, Lord Patric Eyre Ballarat accepted the surrender of the Minister-Keffe Tsane Valstaad with a crowd of Confederation Lords in attendance, which was taking artistic liberty with history.
The floor of the Chamber was carpeted in a rich gold hue, and woven in contrasting black was the circled cross of the Concord crest. The emblem was five meters in diameter, and spaced around its periphery were ten massive, karri-wood chairs. The one on the far side of the circle was larger than the others, with a small platform before it serving as a step and footrest.
The Chairman’s seat.
Alexand stared down at it, that solemnly carved, venerable hulk that had been the object of ultimate desire for ambitious men for generations. It seemed too heavy to be supported by anything other than stone; heavy with tragedy and blood, portent and power.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before the appointed hour; only two of the Director’s chairs were occupied now. His eyes moved around the circle to the one nearest him, the Ivanoi chair, and to the smaller chair that had been installed to its right for this meeting.
Lady Honoria Corelis Ivanoi sat in that smaller chair. He had only an angled view of her back now, but he’d studied her closely when she entered the Chamber. She wore black, a high-necked, long-sleeved gown; her golden hair was hidden under an unadorned koyf from which a black veil trailed like an ominous cloud. The r
egal, immutable calm was intact.
Lady Honoria had been purposely relegated to the chair squeezed into the circle, but the Ivanoi chair wasn’t empty. From the gallery, Alexand could see the top of the small, tawny-haired head of its occupant. Derek Arment Ivanoi, first born of the Lord Alexis, was learning early the lessons of power.
Like his mother, he was dressed in black. He sat the big chair with his black-shod feet projecting in front of him because the seat was too deep for his five-year-old legs, and he didn’t move except to gaze around the Chamber and occasionally look up at Honoria for reassurance.
This child would sit patiently through the meeting, comprehending nothing of the verbal battles raging around him. He would sit quietly; no fidgeting; no laughing—or crying. Derek Arment Ivanoi was the first born. His obligations had undoubtedly been made clear to him.
Alexand might have pitied the boy if he allowed himself to dwell on his plight. He didn’t. He understood his own obligations as well as Derek Ivanoi did.
And he understood now Honoria Ivanoi’s unbreachable calm, her quiet hands. A name, a presence, existed like a shadow in his thoughts, something so loved, so vital to his being, he couldn’t encompass the grief of loss. And today it might be lost to him. Yet he waited in calculating calm, shutting out the potential of grief; for him at this time and place it did not exist. He could not let it exist. His obligations were clear.
The only other occupant of the circle now was Trevor Hild Robek, whose House was built firmly on the Planetary Transystem franchises. He was both a friend and an ally to Woolf and Galinin, and it was he who had escorted Honoria and Derek into the Chamber. He sat in the chair to Derek’s left, solid and compact, dark hair laced with gray; like an old soldier, wily and wary.
Alexand’s attention shifted to the double doors as they slid open.
Cameroodo and Fallor.
They parted when they reached the circle, Fallor stooped and gray, although he wasn’t yet sixty, his pinched features revealing his confusion when he saw Derek Ivanoi and his mother. But he recovered his usual smug aplomb by the time he settled himself in his chair.
