Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  It seemed perversely appropriate that Fallor would be the last to vote, since his was one of the votes both antagonists in the impending encounter were vying for. His turn at voting was determined by the position of the Fallor chair in the circle, and the sequence of voting was determined by entrenched tradition whose genesis was lost in the shadows of history. It began with the Chairman and moved to his left around the circle. Fallor, on Galinin’s right, always voted last.

  Julia Fallor’s father would have the last word today.

  Alexand turned his attention to the man who had entered with Fallor. James Neeth Cameroodo, Lord of Mars, tall, stringently lean, the hint of negroid structure in his dark face revealing his racial origins as the leopard of the House crest revealed its geographic origins in Terra’s Sudafrika. Unlike Fallor, Cameroodo could never be called a fence rider. His position on any issue was always clear. He stood with Selasis not out of friendship, but because Selasis’s reactionary tendencies were in agreement with his.

  Cameroodo showed no hint of surprise at seeing Honoria and Derek Ivanoi, and even offered her a courtly bow before he seated himself. Still, he didn’t speak to her, even though they were separated only by the still-vacant Hamid chair.

  The doors opened again and the man who entered was a marked contrast to Cameroodo. Sato Lao Shang’s racial heritage was oriental; he was slight of body with wizened features and a balding head, yet he carried himself with profound dignity. He crossed the circle at a circumspect pace, then on reaching the chair to Cameroodo’s right, turned and bowed to Honoria Ivanoi and spoke a few words to her, apparently condolences, then formally greeted the Lords present, and finally seated himself to wait silently beside the equally silent Cameroodo.

  Sato Shang’s show of courtesy to Lady Honoria didn’t surprise Alexand, but neither did it offer any hint of his intentions. He could be fully prepared to destroy Ivanoi with a word, yet he would still extend Honoria that courtesy because it was her due; her birthright. A dynastic thinker.

  Again the doors opened, and Alexand’s eyes narrowed. Interesting that two of the habitual fence riders entered accompanied by a Selasid faithful. Shang had been alone, but Fallor had Cameroodo, and now Sandro Delai Omer was enjoying—or at least tolerating—the company of Lazar D’Ord Hamid.

  Hamid was carrying the conversation, but Omer apparently concluded it for him when they reached the circle, stopping at his chair to Robek’s left, while Hamid crossed to the chair next to Honoria Ivanoi. His surprise at seeing her and Derek literally stopped him in his tracks. He made an awkward bow to her, his round face hotly pink, then he went hastily to his chair, and from that time on, although no more than a meter’s space stood between them, he spared her not even a glance.

  A man of myopic subterfuges, so Phillip Woolf characterized Hamid. And a vain man, prone to decking himself with an abundance of ornament and given to extremes of fashion that only emphasized his paunchiness and short stature. A fool, and generally recognized as such, who held a Directorate chair only by virtue of heredity, and headed a financially successful House by the same accident of birth. Even a fool given the resources of a virgin planet could be successful. The House held a series of foodstuff franchises as well as Concord grants on most of the developed land on Pollux. Failure was all but impossible.

  Alexand looked across the circle to the man whom Hamid had escorted into the Chamber. Sandro Delai Omer, a fence rider who seemed to take sardonic delight in the role and who was generally clever enough to profit by it. Like Hamid, Sandro Omer was vain, but with some justification. A handsome man whose refined features fell just short of delicacy, he wore his dark hair long, curling around his face, yet in spite of his tendency to affectation in manner and dress, there was nothing effete about him. Alexand knew his father’s grudging respect for him. And he knew there was no way to guess how Omer would cast his vote. He wondered if Omer himself had yet decided.

  The circle was almost filled, but the principals in the impending drama hadn’t yet appeared. Alexand watched the doors, and at length they opened for the Lord Orin Badir Selasis.

  He had presence; Alexand gave him his due. Orin Selasis moved into the Chamber like a mountain; a man of massive proportions, yet he walked with a light-footedness that with the long robes gave a paradoxical impression of floating. His steel-gray hair was combed back from a high, sloping forehead that made an unbroken line with a prominent, subtly hooked nose; his mouth might at one time have borne the stamp of sensuality, but it was only unyielding now, and hinting of cruelty.

  But his face was dominated by the eyepatch, a black ellipse that seemed to give prominence to the other eye, a chameleon green with a reptilian aspect engendered by the pouched socket and the very singleness of it.

  Selasis moved, floated, to his chair without so much as a nod to anyone present, betraying no awareness of Honoria or Derek Ivanoi. He took his seat between Omer and Fallor, and the huge chair was dwarfed by his bulk.

  Alexand was so intent on him that he didn’t hear the gallery door open. He was only alerted to the new arrival when he heard the Reeswyck exchanging greetings with him. Alexand listened to the voices. He recognized the newcomer, but chose not to acknowledge him.

  But this latest arrival wouldn’t be put off. “Well, Alex, come to take a lesson from the proceedings?”

  Alexand didn’t turn. “Isn’t that why you’re here, Karlis?”

  Karlis Selasis laughed, a sound unrelated to humor. “I think I just might enjoy this lesson.”

  Alexand swiveled his chair a scant quarter turn and looked up at Karlis with a dispassionate eye that finally made him turn away. The Lady Idris Svynhel Selasis had been one of the Concord’s reigning beauties, and Karlis was very much her son. It was rumored that he had been the model for the two Leador Neogreco sculptures Selasis donated for the entry court at the Concordia Sports Arena last year, and the resemblance was too obvious to be denied. Leador had no doubt enjoyed his model, and the two figures were among his best works. The faces were particularly telling, and Alexand had been amazed that the sculptor had not only carved excellent likenesses of that nearly perfect face, but had imparted so manifestly the ruthless sensuality in it. Perhaps it was too subtle for the Selasids, or perhaps they didn’t take exception to it.

  Alexand turned back to the Chamber while Karlis seated himself, leaving one empty chair between them, then leaned forward, staring blankly.

  “Holy God, now we’ve got women and children sitting on the Directorate.”

  Alexand said levelly, “We have the first born of Alexis Ivanoi and his regent.” A pause, then, “You know about the regency, of course.”

  Karlis’s fair skin reddened. He was clearly not aware of the regency, but he said airily, “Of course I know about it. Who doesn’t?”

  Alexand didn’t comment. The doors were opening again. It would be his father.

  The Lord Phillip DeKoven Woolf was today every centimeter the Black Eagle, even to the somber hue of his attire, the formal surcoat embellished with gold brocade, the cloak, bordered in black fur, set back on his shoulders, emphasizing their breadth. On entering the circle, Woolf paused, then crossed to Lady Honoria, bowed, and exchanged a few words with her. He didn’t bow to Derek—that would be inappropriate—but offered him a nod of recognition and a brief smile before he went to the chair between Shang and the Chairman’s seat.

  “Well, it’s beginning to look like a family reunion.” Karlis gave a caustic laugh, then turned his attention to the opening doors. “Finally. Here comes the old man.”

  Alexand wouldn’t allow himself the indulgence of anger now, but neither would he let that pass unchallenged. His voice was low, the words spaced.

  “Karlis, don’t ever let me hear you refer to the Lord Galinin as ‘the old man’ again.”

  Karlis turned, lips curling, on the verge of asking what he intended to do about it, b
ut the answer was obvious, and it became equally obvious that Karlis wasn’t willing to take him on in a point of honor.

  But Alexand wasted no more thought on Karlis. The Chairman had arrived.

  The Lord Mathis Daro Galinin. robed in black, a stark contrast to his white hair and beard, seemed an ancient patriarch reincarnated, and in his grave face and imperious bearing was a grim promise: Mathis Galinin would not surrender to man or fate. And these proud and cynical Lords responded, however reluctantly or subtly: he was the focal point of every eye, and his entrance created a hushed tension, the rustle of his robes was audible as he approached the Chairman’s seat, stepped onto the footrest, and turned to survey the circle.

  Alexand counted them off around the circle as the votes would be heard: Galinin. Woolf, Shang, Cameroodo, Hamid, Ivanoi, Robek, Omer, Selasis, and Fallor.

  That sequence of names hadn’t changed for four generations. He wondered if it would be the same at the Directorate’s next meeting.

  Mathis Galinin, he had no doubt, was asking himself the same question.

  5.

  Adrien left the clavalier, Master Duboi, and the Isawa Sonatina in mid-measure at the news that a SynchCom lettape was being transmitted from Concordia for her. She ran down the corridor ’ways, too impatient to bear with their sedate movement, still running even when she reached her salon and crossed to the comconsole. She had awaited this through the endless hours of a sleepless night: a call, a lettape—anything to break the silence she knew was more than preoccupation with the crisis in Concordia.

  Now she touched the repeat switch for the third time and watched the words take form on the screen again, moving inexorably from the bottom to the top.

  She wondered if she would ever be capable of moving again, and found it a matter of indifference. She was equally indifferent to the fact that her heart still beat, her lungs still drew air into her body, her mind could still translate letters into words, words into meanings. She was even capable of recognizing the pain behind the terse sentences.

  . . . my father offered no more than a possibility of a marriage alliance, and he did so only when I suggested the gambit myself. I was thinking of the House, of Galinin, Ivanoi, and the Chairmanship. It is for such decisions that I’ve been trained. The efficacy of that training is obvious.

  Charles Fallor turned the vote and saved Galinin and Ivanoi—for now, at least. He also turned the possibility my father offered into a probability, or rather, an inevitability. Fallor turned the vote once, and he can turn it again, and Orin Selasis is waiting to offer Karlis in my stead should Father try to renege. The balance of power is still too precarious to risk a Fallor-Selasis alliance.

  You will understand what was—and still is—at stake. I needn’t explain my decision further, but neither can I ask you to forgive it. And I know you will also understand that there’s nothing more I can say, nothing we can ever say to each other. Not in words.

  Perhaps we saw a Rightness in a Testing.

  But this I will put into words: Adrien, never doubt I love you, and I always will. . . .

  The lines slid past and off the screen. The final word remained imprinted on her retina: Alexand.

  A sound; somewhere an insistent sound. The door chime. She heard it and recognized it, but she was incapable of responding to it.

  A Testing. It would be a Testing. She wondered if she had the courage for this.

  Alexand . . .

  Her hands convulsed into fists.

  The chime again. The door opened. Still, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from the blank screen. Absence was in that square of emptiness.

  “Serra Adrien?”

  The voice was gentle and familiar, and somehow it gave her strength to turn her head toward the door. Dr. Lile Perralt, reflected sunlight striking his grizzled white hair, emphasizing the anxious lines in his face. He started toward her, then stopped a few paces away.

  “Adrien, what’s wrong?”

  She methodically removed the lettape spool from its slot, staring at it. She must answer Perralt. She wasn’t sure she could tolerate it, but it must be done. He deserved no pain in doubt.

  She tossed the spool into the syntegrator.

  “I had a lettape from Alex.” She looked up, briefly frightened at his pallor; there was that hint of illness in it she’d noted with increasing frequency in the last year. “It was about the . . . Directorate meeting.” She turned from the screen and walked toward the couch near the windowall, vaguely aware that Perralt was following her. “Fortunately, Selasis was stymied both in his bid for the Chairmanship and in his attempt to unseat the Ivanoi.”

  “I’m relieved at that. Can you tell me about it?”

  He meant was it something for his ears, but perhaps he also realized that she might find the telling difficult.

  “You understand politics, Dr. Lile; you know every victory has its price. Its casualties.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure Galinin paid a high price for this victory.”

  “It wasn’t only Galinin’s victory. It was also Ivanoi’s and Woolf’s.”

  Perralt hesitated. “And what was Woolf’s price?”

  The Castorian sky was so dark, even at noonday; indigo blue, verging on black. Black was still the color of grief.

  “Charles Fallor cast the deciding vote; the vote that stymied Selasis and saved Ivanoi and Galinin, that made Phillip Woolf heir apparent to the Chairmanship.” Why couldn’t she say that it was Alexand who was actually the heir? “That vote was bought with the promise of a marriage.”

  “Oh, Holy God . . . Alexand and Julia Fallor?”

  “Yes.”

  The room seemed to be getting dark. It made her dizzy.

  Alexand, I loved you from the first; I saw a Rightness in it, and it was there. And how can I ever call anyone else my Promised, my husband, my Lord?

  “Adrien!”

  Perralt caught her as she fell, eased her onto the couch, and held her when the sobbing began. He offered no words, knowing she was past hearing them. He was relieved that she was capable of tears, relieved that it was he who was here now so she would feel free to weep. Those agonized sobs racked him, but she must have them out.

  On some level he was thinking that he must contact Phoenix HQ. Ben probably knew of the outcome of the Directorate meeting through the Concordia chapter, but he might not know the price of the Fallor vote. The Woolf succession to the Chairmanship was welcome news, but the Fallor-Woolf alliance would be a weak one and a blow to the Society’s hopes for Eliseer. It must be stopped if at all possible.

  Later. He’d make the call later.

  Now all he could think of was Adrien, sobbing in his arms, this lovely young woman who was so exceptional among her peers as to be capable of loving with all her being, who was paying the price for that rare gift because she was the daughter of a First Lord.

  And Ser Alexand—he was equally cursed or gifted. What of that young man born into a crucial position at a crucial time? A young man marked CP-One by the Phoenix, the highest Critical Potential rating for an individual.

  Phillip Woolf had made a bargain with Fallor for survival. Perralt wondered what the long-range results would be, and if it would seem a bargain in the end.

  6.

  It was still cool at night, a scent of frost in the air. Rich made his way along the balcony fronting the gymnasium, hearing the hum of his crutches under the rasping swish of his footsteps in the night quiet; the lights from the gymnasium threw multiple, ghostly shadows of his cloaked figure across the marblex. Finally, he stopped and leaned against a pillar to catch his breath; it was a long walk from the family wing. He might have saved some effort by taking the main corridors with their pedways, but his chances of being seen were reduced this way, especially so late at night.

  Concordia was a glit
tering galaxy of lights sharp and clear in the cold air. He searched the moonless sky for the constellations of the Southern Cross and the Centaur, found them, then after a moment turned to look into the gym. This was another reason he’d chosen this route: he could be sure Fenn Lacroy was here and that he was alone.

  The SportsMaster was seated on a bench against the far wall by the foil cases, cleaning the foils and testing the charges. Rich wasn’t concerned that Lacroy would see him; he was too intent on his task, and the interior lights were too bright. Nor was he surprised that he was in the gym at this hour; it was more home to him than his apartment.

  Rich took a bracing breath. His pulse rate was up, and that, he knew, couldn’t be attributed solely to physical exertion. Fear. But fear in one form or another wasn’t a stranger. He resumed his slow, halting pace and at the end of the balcony turned into a corridor that took him to the gym door. The S/V and shock screens were on. He shifted his weight to one crutch and reached for the doorcon. Like most of the locks in the Estate, this one was keyed to his thumbprint or voice as it was for every member of the First Lord’s family.

  Lacroy looked up from his work, his blunt features reflecting first annoyance, then surprise.

  “Ser Rich!” He put the foil and cleaning tissue aside and started to rise.

  “That’s all right, Fenn. Don’t get up.”

  He relaxed, at least partially, watching Rich curiously as he crossed the expanse of floor and finally sank down on the bench beside him.

  “I’m always glad for your company, Ser Rich, but I’ll admit I hadn’t expected it. It’s after midnight.”

  Rich propped his crutches against the bench. “Yes. Well, I had to wait until Alex was asleep.”

  Lacroy frowned dubiously. “Ser Alex doesn’t know you’re here?”