Sword of the Lamb (17 page)

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 all. 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.”

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 there 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.