Sword of the Lamb (5 page)

Rovere paused. “Perhaps you’d like to answer that, Alex.”

Alexand shifted restlessly, and Rovere almost expected him to rise and begin pacing; in that he was also much like his father. But he remained seated.

“I suppose the Concord was forced to tolerate the Republic at first until we recovered from Mankeen. But after that . . .” He frowned down at the ground. “The Republic was a bad example. Too many Fesh and Bonds were escaping allegiance and going to Centauri. And perhaps getting at the resources by trade wasn’t good enough.”

“Possibly, but I think the resources were less important than, as you put it, the bad example the Republic set. It was a constant threat to the Concord’s stability. But bear in mind that the Twin Planets were colonies; the original population was seventy-five percent Fesh and only twenty-five percent Bond. What was possible there—a monarchal republic—was not possible in the Solar System with seventy percent of the population illiterate Bonds.” Rovere paused, studying Alexand’s precociously wary features. “And remember, at the time of the War of the Twin Planets, the Lords of the Concord were very conscious of the chaos Mankeen unleashed and they saw in the Republic the threat of a new revolution.”

“Do you remember the War of the Twin Planets?”

Rovere laughed. Alexand made it sound like ancient history.

“Yes, Alex. It was less than forty years ago.”

Rich put in, “3208 to 3210.”

“Correct,” Rovere said, “and a point for you.”

“You didn’t ask a question,” Alexand objected.

“I got an answer. That should be worth something.”

“And the date of the Peladeen Purge?” Alexand asked, that bitter edge in his voice. “3210. Three million killed.”

Rovere hesitated, then marked a point under his initial. “True, Alex.”

There was a brief silence, which Rich broke with an adroit shift of subject that seemed unintentional.

“Lector Theron, the Bonds call Lionar Mankeen
Saint
Lionar.”

“Do they?”

“Yes. Alda—she’s one of the hall maids—told me. She had leave to go to her compound chapel one day, and she said it was Saint Lionar’s day. When I asked her who he was, she said ‘Lionar Mankeen.’ The Bonds have a lot of saints, don’t they?”

“They do, indeed, and they take them more seriously than does the Orthodox Church. Their religious practices differ in many ways from Orthodox Mezionism. They’re quite fascinating, actually, although very few sociotheologists have investigated them. What did Alda tell you about
Saint
Lionar?” Rich shrugged irritably. “Nothing. When I asked her why he was called a saint, she got scared. I didn’t care if she called him a saint; I just wanted to know
why
.”

“Well, the Bonds are allowed religious freedom, if nothing else. That’s Benedic Galinin—your grandfather Galinin’s great-grandfather’s—famous rule: the Galinin Rule. But I suspect Alda realized that the Elite refer to Lionar Mankeen as the Heretic Lord.” He gave a short laugh. “It’s a matter of point of view. One of Mankeen’s avowed purposes was to free the Bonds, yet he nearly precipitated another dark age in the process, and only succeeded in leaving them in a worse state of subjugation than before, but to the Bonds he’s a hero, a saint.”

Alexand asked, “Did he really intend to free them?”

That cynicism. Rovere paused. It was of Lionar Mankeen that he particularly wanted to speak in this last lesson.

“Yes, I think he did. It’s more acceptable now to assume he was only using them for his own ends, but I’m inclined to think he was sincere; he wanted to free them.”

“I suppose the Concord couldn’t tolerate that any more than it could the Republic.”

“It wasn’t a question of toleration, but of survival. Alex, consider a hypothetical question: What would have happened if Lionar Mankeen hadn’t been defeated, if he had defeated the Concord?”

He thought a moment, dark brows drawn. “I think all the Loyal Houses would have been destroyed. I suppose that would leave the League Houses to govern the Two Systems.”

“Do you think those 302 Houses could have kept the machinery of civilization running?”

“Possibly. It would depend on how many Fesh survived and how quickly the Lords of the League could take over the functions of the other Houses and of the Concord.”

“And what if the Fesh population had been reduced to the point where the wheels of production and government came to a halt? What would happen then?”

“The Bonds wouldn’t be able to keep the wheels turning, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. The result would be anarchy—a third dark age. But why would the machinery of civilization stop if the Bonds were left to run it?”

“They aren’t educated or skilled enough. They wouldn’t know how.”

“True.” Rovere smiled, noting Rich’s attentive interest in this dialogue. “Alex, I’m following this line because one day you’ll have to deal with these problems. We live within the entrenched limitations of feudalism that grew out of the Second Dark Age. The class system, the subjugation of the Bonds, and the hereditary rule of the elite are our heritage from the Decades of Disaster. Mankeen tried to break the hold of feudalism. My next question is this: Grant that his motives were good, why was he doomed to fail, whether or not he defeated the Concord?”

Alexand met his gaze squarely and answered, “He was doomed to fail because he thought the Bonds
could
. . . take over. Perhaps he hoped to establish something like the old Pre-Disasters republics, but the Bonds aren’t capable of the responsibilities. They couldn’t keep the wheels of civilization turning for a single day without the Fesh and Elite to tell them what to do. But
they
can’t be blamed for that.”

“No,” Rovere replied softly. “Who must take that blame?”

“The Lords, I suppose, because they—we keep them illiterate and restricted. Or, rather, enslaved. Perhaps that’s a more accurate term.”

“Perhaps. But why do the Lords keep the Bonds illiterate and restricted—or enslaved, if you will?”

He replied dully, as if it were a rote lesson, “Because we depend on them for a labor pool, for one thing, and if we started educating them, it might foster dissatisfaction, and that could mean revolt.”

“Revolt. Considering that Bonds make up nearly three-quarters of the population, a Bond revolt is a frightening prospect; it could lead to total anarchy. Do you agree?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Then are the Lords to be blamed for maintaining stringent control over the Bonds?”

“No. I suppose not.” Alexand was silent for some time, then he looked directly at Rovere. “But there are always mutinies and uprisings among the Bonds, especially in the more conservative Houses. They get worse every year. Last year there were fifty-two Bond uprisings serious enough to require Conpol or even Confleet intervention. Has maintaining stringent control really helped? Is that the answer?”

It was revealing that he had the statistics on Bond uprisings so clearly in mind. Rovere’s gaze rested for a moment on Rich, who was still listening intently.

“Yes, Alex, there are always uprisings, and they’re increasing in frequency; they’re a symptom of instability within the system. Mankeen, however worthy his motives, didn’t have the answer. One cannot ‘free’ the Bonds overnight. On the other hand, from your study of history, you know feudalism can’t survive indefinitely against the tide of natural societal evolution. Feudalism is the first step out of anarchy. It provides a stable framework for civilization to develop within, but when anarchy is vanquished, feudalism becomes restrictive rather than stabilizing. Restriction is what breeds dissatisfaction and revolt.”

Alexand’s penetrating eyes were so much like his father’s, Rovere was thinking, except that they lacked Woolf’s coldness. He was already capable of that, but he would never turn it on his tutor.

“Lector Theron, what
is
the answer?”

“I don’t know, Alex. I wish I did. I only know that the Concord, like the proverbial tree in the storm, must learn to bend with the winds of change, and you may be in a position one day to help it bend, rather than standing rigidly against the storm to face the inevitable toppling. The Concord is all we have, the matrix of our civilization. When it falls, we’ll be plunged into another dark age.” He paused, then, “I can give you no answers, only some advice: Study the past to understand the future, and perhaps you can change the course of history to some degree for the better.”

A silence grew out of those words; they had a ring of finality, he knew, and both boys sensed it. Alexand seemed to withdraw, assuming a mask of detached containment; part of his training, Rovere thought regretfully. But Rich wasn’t capable of that, and his eyes darkened with uncertainty.

Rovere methodically put the scriber and lightpen away.

“Our lesson is finished, and I have some . . . sad news. Sad for me, at least. This is our last lesson together—”

“Lector Theron!” Rich couldn’t restrain that exclamation.

“Now, Rich, don’t make it difficult for me. I promised your lady mother I’d spend ten years with her sons. You see, I had intended to retire before she asked me to tutor you, and now I . . . well, there’s quite a lot of writing I want to do, several theses I haven’t finished . . .”

Alexand didn’t believe a word of that; still, he didn’t challenge it.

But Rich asked, “You’re going to retire? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, I . . . I guess I’m a coward in some ways; I don’t like farewells. I almost didn’t come today, but at the last minute I changed my mind. For all the trouble you two have caused me—” He put on an expression of sternness that dissolved into gentle affection, “—I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“But where will you go?”

“Oh, I have a place . . . away from the city.”

“Where is it? Can we visit you?”

Rovere closed his eyes briefly. That Alexand asked no questions was revealing.

“It’s a . . . retirement compound. And perhaps—well, after I’m settled . . . He had never before lied to Rich and it rankled. “At any rate, you can correspond with me. Your father will know where to send your lettapes. That is, if you don’t forget me altogether in a week or so.”

“Oh, Lector Theron—never! I’ll ’tape you every week. Every day. We both will—Alex?”

Alexand’s smile was quite convincing. “You won’t be rid of us so easily. We’ll ’tape you until you’ll wish you’d never heard of us. All your writing will be to Rich and me.”

Rovere met Alexand’s gaze, and after a moment nodded.

“I’ll look forward to that.” Then he pulled himself to his feet, and Alexand rose with him. Rovere paused, feeling the incipient tears burning in his eyes. “Rich, the God bless you. And Alex . . .” Of the three of them only Alexand was entirely dry-eyed, and there was something symbolic in that. It was another luxury that would be denied him along with comfortable delusions. Tears. The very human act of weeping.

And this boy would be envied when he became a man.

“Alexand, you have a high destiny. Peace be with you.” There was a flickering shadow in Alexand’s eyes, but his voice was still steady.

“And with you, Lector Theron.”

Rovere turned away, moving as quickly as his aged joints would take him down the path toward the eucalypt grove. Beyond it, he knew, two black-uniformed, face-screened SSB officers waited, shadows among the shadows.

Behind him, he heard Rich’s distant, “Goodbye . . .”

But Theron Rovere didn’t look back.

It was called the residential wing, but Alexand had never been sure why. Of course, one subwing did serve as a residence for certain Fesh employees and House officials, another for pages currently attached to the House, and another as a sometime residence for the Lady Morna Woolf Gray, Phillip Woolf’s widowed sister, who divided her time between the Woolf Estate and the Manstine Gray Estate in Coben, depending on the season and her whim. And yet another subwing served as a residence for Woolf’s only brother, VisLord Ives, his wife, Rosann, and their son, Delman, and daughters, Rosel and Kira. Alexand wondered absently if Delman would be sporting his Confleet uniform tonight; he seemed so inordinately proud of it and the rank of leftant, although he had no choice about Confleet, and the rank was only standard for any Confleet Academy graduate. Alexand wasn’t even sure Delman was home on his holiday leave yet. The brothers Phillip and Ives Woolf might share the same roof but their relationship could not be called close, and the coolness extended to their families.

But this wing encompassed so much more than these residences. It also housed the Estate’s entertainment facilities, which was why it was so crowded and bustling with activity today. There were ten banquet halls, six covered courts, a small auditorium, seven salons, two small ballrooms, and the grand ballroom with its twin promenades and domed entry court, an airy, elegant feat of engineering and design that had made its architech, Hespay Alakine, famous, preserving his name in textapes for two centuries. Another subwing provided guest facilities that could easily accommodate up to 150 Lords, VisLords, their Ladies, offspring, and entourages. Beyond that, the residential wing also housed the gymnasium complex, the infirmary and medical center, the House museum, gallery, and historical library, and on the ground level, the aquarium, greenhouses, aviary, stables, and riding park.

It did
not
include the residence of the First Lord and his family. That was a separate wing known as the family wing, and its exclusivity was carefully—and literally—guarded; privacy was hard come by for a First Lord and those nearest him.

The harried activity that made the halls of the residential wing so noisy today barely impinged on Alexand’s consciousness. He could muster no enthusiasm for the Concord Day celebration in the face of Theron Rovere’s departure. He felt an odd sense of isolation, as if he were surrounded by an invisible shell of silence within which he was insulated from all outside stimuli; insulated from regret, from pain.

He didn’t wonder if he had purposely sought out his mother until he reached the doorway of the blue salon on the fifth level. There he stopped, watching unnoticed in the constant stream of servants and House officials. The salon had become a command post, as strictly efficient as any Confleet comcenter, despite its sumptuous Trimillennium period appointments, and although the Lady Elise Galinin Woolf, seated at a Shanidel rosewood desk, might seem far removed from a commander engaged in a complex and precisely timed logistics maneuver, she was exactly that.

Alexand wondered how she managed it. How did she maintain her efficient calm? Rovere had been her tutor, too, and a close friend.

But as Lady of the First Lord of the House, it was her duty to preside over all Estate social events, and the preparations for the DeKoven Woolf Concord Day ball were a staggering challenge in management and organization. There was no time for grief.

At least five thousand guests would spend some time at the Woolf Estate on their traditional tours of the Concordia House balls after the public ceremonies in the Plaza. Nearly a hundred would also be staying the night: Lords and VisLords and their families from outside Concordia and, in some cases, outside Terra or the Solar System. Their entourages added five hundred more whose needs must be met, plus the three hundred musicians, dancers, and theatrotechs who would entertain the guests.

Many of the guests at the House balls were Fesh; it was one of the few occasions on which the two classes mixed socially. Treasured éclats, those invitations, Alexand knew; he’d seen those received by Mistra Adith Thal, his mother’s dance instructor, preserved in plasex and proudly displayed on her dressing room wall. They were extended by all the Concordia Houses to Fesh of special distinction—scholars, scientists, artists, writers, and performers. Ranking officers in Confleet and Conpol were generally tendered invitations, too, as well as high officials in Conmed and other branches of the Concord bureaucracy and, of course, the Church hierarchy.

Alexand smiled faintly as he leaned against the doorframe. His mother hadn’t noticed him, which wasn’t surprising with Estate Chamberlin Ernest Hayn, Entertainments Steward Martin Camil, and theatrotech Dedrik Sander hovering over her and voices coming intermittently from the three intercom screens before her on the desk.

Her attention at the moment was on VisSteward James Cordel and the three Bonds with him, each holding swags of delicate, sparkling chiffeen of varying shades of gold.

“The palest one, Fer Cordel,” she said. “And tell Master Rawlin the drapery—
all
the decorations—must be kept out of the way of the guests, even if it disrupts his décor. Yes, Marco?” This in answer to an insistent voice from one of the intercom screens.

“My lady—disaster! It is terrible! We are undone!”

She only smiled tolerantly. “What is the nature of this disaster, Master Marco?”

“The champagne, My Lady! I asked for four thousand bottles of Shato Bord, and what do they send?
Cornielle
! An
inferior
wine!”

“Now, Marco, it isn’t that inferior, and by the time our guests have made the rounds of the Estates tonight, I’m sure their palates will be too jaded to know the difference. What about the Mulier? You haven’t forgotten to chill it?”

“Oh, my lady, of
course
not! Only once such an error should slip past me.”

“The capons? Have they arrived? And the lobster?”

“Yes, my lady, and they’re ready for the cookers.”

“And the trays for the guest rooms?”

“All prepared, my lady.”

“Very good, Marco. You have the checklist. I want you to go over it now.”

“But, my lady, I know it by
heart
. Everything is—”

“Nevertheless, go over it again. Yes, Master Hayn?” She cut Marco off and looked up at the chamberlin.

“Master Demret and the musicians have arrived, my lady. They’re checking the orchestron installation in the ballroom.”

“Oh, marvelous. Is Master Demret satisfied with the arrangements?”

“He seems to be.”

“Good. Give him my regards and tell him I’ll talk to him as soon as possible. Oh—did you test the nulgrav levels on the dance stage? The ballet will be the finale of the indoor entertainment, and I want Mistra Liay and her dancers at their best.”

“Mistra Liay hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll certainly check the nulgrav setting with her.”

“Thank you, Ernest.” Then, as he departed, Camil and Sander began speaking at once. “A moment, Master Sander. Fer Camil, has the fireworks master and his team arrived?”

He bowed. “Yes, my lady. They’re setting up in the ballroom court.”

“They’re late,” she noted, with a glance at her watch. “Have the master consult with Demret on the timing. He’s in the ballroom now.” Then, when he departed, “Master Sander, the light display for the ballroom?”

“That’s what I came to tell you, my lady. The installations are complete, and I’ve checked the sequences personally.”

“Thank you. Oh—has Ernest left? I wanted him to be sure and check with Captain Sier about the landing roof guards. The first overnight guests will be arriving soon.”

“I’ll give him the message, my lady.” Sander bowed himself out while Elise responded to a voice from one of the screens. Landin, apparently, about the flowers.

“Don’t worry about the orchids, Fer Landin. Rawlin will need them for the tables, and roses and chrysanthemums will do very well for the garlands . . .”

Alexand slipped out in Sander’s wake as three more House officials converged on the door. His mother would take time for him if he made his presence known; she was never too busy to welcome him. But he didn’t want to talk to her except in private now, and that was impossible. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to talk to anyone at the moment. His retreat was further hastened by a glimpse of Lady Rosann Woolf riding down the corridor pedway, flanked, as always, by a Fesh waitingmaid and two Bondmaid attendants. She was coming to “help” Lady Elise, no doubt. Alexand struck off down the hall in the opposite direction.

The pedways and nulgrav lifts were swarming with Fesh and Bonds moving with hurried purpose, but he was hardly aware of them, still wrapped in his shell of silence. Once a flurry of awed comment aroused him. Lamino, Lady Elise’s clothier, riding the pedway with his coiffed head held high. He was on his way to the Lady’s salon with the gown she would wear at the ball. The gown followed, worn by Ana, Elise’s mannequin. She was a Bond privileged to wear that resplendent gown by virtue of the fact that her physical measurements exactly duplicated Elise’s.

Lamino might well be proud of his creation: iridescent blue-green satina, subtly draped, simple lines to emphasize the magnificent fanning train, which was covered with a mosaic of peacock feathers. Alexand smiled briefly, thinking that the clothiers of the Elite should prepare themselves for a rush of demands for feathered gowns.

He moved on, finding nothing more to hold his attention except one fleeting exchange caught in passing. Portly, red-cheeked Ferra Rona Hanly giving directions to a Bond with an armload of deep-blue delphiniums.

“Carlo, those go to the Eliseer suite. And check the linens. Make sure they’re the blue with
silver
trim.”

The concern for color arose from Elise’s insistence on furnishing her guests’ suites with the colors of their House crests. Alexand had to think a moment before he remembered the Camine Eliseer crest—a winged horse, blue and silver. Eliseer’s Home Estate was on Castor, the less hospitable of the Twin Planets, where the House held a number of rare metals franchises, and the name caught his attention only because he’d heard his father speak of Loren Eliseer on several occasions lately. Phillip Woolf considered Eliseer a rising power, but Alexand didn’t realize that respect went so far as tendering him an invitation to be a guest of the House.

But Eliseer’s status was of only passing interest. He moved through the bustling halls in his insulating shell, finding it a relief to reach the relatively quiet gymnasium complex high on one of the upper levels.

In the first room a formal karatt class was in progress under the direction of Fesh SportsMaster Ton Kosai, known for his fierce discipline, which showed no hint of laxness despite the holiday. He was offering terse comment on a practice match while the rest of the class observed. His young students, though they meekly toed his stern mark, were all Elite. Pages, sons of VisLords or heirs of First Lords of minor Cognate Houses, sent to enjoy the prestige of an education in the Home Estate of DeKoven Woolf.

Most of them were cousins of varying distance and, as Alexand passed, he exchanged the expected amenities, but he didn’t stop until he reached the door on the far side of the room. The sound/vision screens were on, but the guard switched them off at his nod. He passed into the main gymnasium, a high-ceilinged chamber flooded with light from the south windowall; the S/V screens went on again behind him, and he stopped inside the doorway. His entrance didn’t attract the attention of the only occupants of the huge room, his father and SportsMaster Fenn Lacroy; they were at the foils, totally preoccupied in a lightning-paced duel that was a game only by virtue of the soft tips and the low settings on the charged foils. Those blades, whip-thin tensteel, could kill with a touch if the charges were set at lethal maximum.

“A point, my lord! And accepted.” Fenn Lacroy’s booming laugh echoed in the sunlit expanse as he acknowledged a hit, raising the guard of his foil to his forehead, then bringing the blade down to his side as he bowed. “We’re even, my lord, point for point.”

Woolf laughed heartily as he reciprocated the salute and bow—the only occasion on which he ever bowed to anyone.

“Indeed, Fenn. Point for point, but not for long. Garde!” He took the guard stance; the foils sparked as they crossed. “Ready?” Then, at Lacroy’s nod, “Allon!”

The mock battle resumed with the clashing and shivering slither of metal on metal, the foils throwing off lightning flashes at every contact, the encounter circumscribed by a line of light in the resilient floor, a circle five meters in diameter. Both men were stripped to the waist, shod in soft-soled fencing boots, their faces protected with clear plasex masks. Their movements were almost too quick even for Alexand’s experienced eye; feint and attack, parry and riposte, remise on riposte, counterriposte, then attack on a lunge, counterparry on retreat. They were a close match, and Fenn Lacroy, Fesh or not, never gave a millimeter to his Lord, but Alexand recognized Phillip Woolf as master here, not by title, but by skill and grace.

Lacroy going in with a quick flfèche; he was good at the running attack, his footwork always a wonder of precision, but that aggressive approach too often left him open to a fast riposte. Alexand knew Fenn’s weaknesses, but he had never bested him in a bout; the day he was capable of that he would call himself a true swordsman.

“Ah!” Lacroy loosed that exclamation as Woolf’s foil struck his chest with a jolting shock on a coupe; the price of a split-second’s loss of balance. “A point, and accepted—and the match is yours.” He saluted and bowed, adding, “Well done, my lord!”

Woolf took off his mask; he was breathing hard, as was Lacroy.

“And well done on your part, Fenn. You keep me on my mettle.”

“Then I consider myself a success. Another match—” He stopped and removed his mask when he saw Alexand at the door. “Ser Alex, good morning.”

Woolf turned, studying his son’s face as he approached, then absently handed Lacroy his foil and mask.