Sword of the Lamb (9 page)

From an acacia near the terrace, windwheels spun out sporadic waterfalls of chimes in the light breeze. It was a gray morning, threatening rain, but Serra Adrien Camine Eliseer found the foreboding sky appealing, and she was pleased that Lady Elise chose to serve tea here on the open terrace overlooking the rose garden. Adrien looked across the tea table at her mother, noting the subtle light that always came to her eyes on these occasions.

They still called Galia Shang Eliseer a beautiful woman, and she was that, as all the Shang women were, her manner fastidious and restrained, her dress impeccably tasteful, her attitude outwardly serene. But she was worried. The Lady Galia was worried about her wayward daughter.

Adrien looked down at the bandage on her right wrist; a minor sprain, but it ached. Perhaps her mother guessed more than she’d been told.

And Adrien was wondering if her mother thought her so much a dupe. Tea with the Lady Elise. That was attractive enough, but there was more to it. Lady Galia had frowned at the pink gown Adrien chose with its high waistline and full sleeves. Couldn’t she wear something more—well, dignified? And must she insist on letting her hair run wild?

Adrien had ignored that, but she’d also refrained from asking bluntly when Ser Alexand would appear. Lady Galia hadn’t mentioned him, and no doubt would be quite surprised when he did appear, as she’d been yesterday at the Selasid Estate when Karlis put in his studiously casual appearance.

That was the way the game was played. Adrien didn’t take exception to that, only to her mother’s assumption that she was blind to the game. And she couldn’t explain even to her own satisfaction her uneasiness at this carefully casual encounter. With Karlis it had been simple; she recognized him for what he was and loathed him for it.

But Ser Alexand . . .

Corinth Panatell, her tutor, said the true test of character is stress; a few seconds in a stress situation is more revealing than years of acquaintance without conflict. As usual, Corinth was quite correct.

In a few fleeting seconds last night she’d understood everything worth knowing about Ser Richard Woolf, for instance. She knew him to be as forgiving as he was vulnerable. He hadn’t been angry, nor was there a trace of recrimination in his eyes for his tormentors, vile as they were. Only pain. Pain that cut to her soul.

The incident had also revealed a great deal about Karlis Selasis, but there was nothing new in the revelation. He was ready to laugh at a helpless cripple, even if he were a DeKoven Woolf, but not to face up to a whole-bodied son of Phillip Woolf with a reputation for some skill at the foils.

The incident had also revealed much about Ser Alexand, something that made him more than a face familiar through the PubliCom System screens, that made him intensely human. He wasn’t as forgiving as his brother, and in his bearing was the stamp of pride almost synonymous with DeKoven Woolf, but what struck Adrien was the realization that this was a young man capable of deep and passionate love. He came to his brother’s aid like an avenging angel; she had no doubt he would kill or die for him. She wasn’t sure why, but she found that revelation disturbing, and she was vaguely apprehensive about the impending encounter.

Still, she would always treasure the memory of this morning for one reason: the Lady Elise Galinin Woolf. Adrien watched her as she nodded to the Bondmaid to refill their cups. A living legend even more beautiful and gracious in person than in imagraphs or on vidicom. She was discussing certain mutual friends with Galia now, but most of her conversation had been directed to Adrien.

Adrien knew she was being examined and assessed; she’d been through the process before. But most of the Ladies considering her as a future daughter-in-law limited their questions to matters of lineage, manner, House management, and etiquette. The Lady Elise was a pleasant surprise. She talked about music, art, poetry, history, and even politics, and without a hint of condescension for Adrien because of her age. And Lady Elise listened, not critically, but with curious interest, to what Adrien had to say.

“My lady, I must compliment you.” Galia Eliseer lifted the dainty cup to her lips and smiled. “This is perfectly brewed, which is rather rare with Black Shang.”

“That pleases me. Master Marco isn’t a fancier of tea, unfortunately, but he assures me he’s willing to learn.” Then she added with a quick laugh, “A little reluctantly sometimes, of course.”

As the discussion of tea and the Woolfs’ master chef continued, Adrien looked down toward the end of the terrace where Lectris, her Bond bodyguard, stood waiting near the salon door—all two meters and hundred kilos of him—staunch and stolid in his blue-and-silver tabard, endlessly patient. It was the turn of Lectris’s head toward the salon, the wary narrowing of his eyes, that gave her warning. She put her cup down, wondering at the quickening of her pulse, wondering if he’d remember her, wondering so many things.

When she looked up, he was emerging from the salon, dressed with appropriate casualness, the wide-necked shirt loosely laced under an open vest of blue—the color of his eyes, she noted—with only a narrow border of decorative brocade; informal boots of the same pale gray as the slim trousers. He walks like a dancer, she thought. He’d lose some of that youthful grace in the next few years; he’d fill out and grow taller. But he would never lose it entirely. Phillip Woolf still had it.

He glanced curiously at Lectris, then when he saw her, stopped abruptly. He recognized her. He didn’t expect her, but he recognized her.

And Adrien felt briefly afraid.

She was the daughter of a First Lord; certain things were denied her by her birth as they were denied him. Yet there was a Rightness here. That’s what the Elder Shepherd Malaki would call it. Or perhaps a spirit weft.

At any rate, it was too late now.

“That’s only Lectris,” she said with a faint smile, noting Alexand’s backward glance at the Bond.

“Only?” He laughed, offering his arm as they stepped down into the garden. Lectris loomed silently, a granitic pillar of a man with great, sinewy hands that would be nothing less than lethal weapons, and he was further armed with an X
²
laser, which was particularly unusual for a Bond.

“Lectris is my personal guard,” Adrien explained. “He’s really a very gentle soul. He’s been looking after me since I was old enough to walk.”

The winding path led them away from the terrace, and if not out of range of maternal eyes, at least out of range of maternal ears. No attempt would be made to escape visual observation; that would strain the bounds of propriety as well as the patience of their curious and attentive mothers. For some time they walked in silence, and the garden had never seemed so beautiful. The gray light contradictorily intensified the colors, the incipient rain heightened the scents.

Alexand looked down at her. The “mysterious Serra” was no longer a mystery. Serra Adrien Camine Eliseer, first daughter of the Lord Loren and the Lady Galia Shang Eliseer.

And a potential bride.

A cold warning sounded in his mind: in any human encounter, your best defense is doubt. His father’s words. There was truth behind them, and bitter experience, yet they rankled. He’d told Rich that one could love a young woman like this. Was it asking so much, or was it so foolish, to want to find out if he were right?

He studied her face, in profile to him, shadowed by her black hair, which fell straight and unfettered to her waist. It asked to be touched, and he had to restrain the impulse. It had the same silken, blued sheen as Lady Galia’s, their heritage from Shang. Adrien’s features also reflected the Shang heritage: high cheekbones and dark, oblique eyes. Her hands were small and as delicate as finely carved ivories. A Selaneen doll; something so exquisitely fragile it should be encased in plasex as the finest Selaneens always were.

Yet she’d seemed anything but fragile last night when she silenced Karlis Selasis with that potent, unmasked contempt. This Selaneen had bones of steel. She was something entirely new to him in his experience with the daughters of the Court of Lords.

Your best defense is doubt
. . ..

He frowned, aware that the silence was stretching too long, even if she showed no impatience with it.

“Serra Adrien, I’m grateful for this opportunity to talk with you, both for my sake and my brother’s. Rich regretted very much that he didn’t thank you last night. He’ll be happy that I’ve found you so I can offer his thanks—and mine—for your kindness.”

She seemed to freeze, but it was something behind her eyes; her pace didn’t change, nor did her expression.

“Kindness.” She pronounced the word almost coldly. “Holy God, it was his due, and not because of his lineage. A matter of simple courtesy that needs no special thanks.”

“Serra, whether or not it was his due, you were the only one present who showed that simple courtesy.”

“That changes nothing. Those simpering, gutless Lordlings try to bring
him
to his knees because he’s so much—” She stopped, her shoulders sagging. “Forgive me, Ser Alexand. There’s nothing new in this for you, I know, nor is it something that bears reiteration.”

“No. It isn’t new, and perhaps it doesn’t bear reiteration, but understanding is another matter. And compassion.”

She looked up at him intently, a gentle smile making shadows at the corners of her mouth.

“Tell Ser Richard for me, please, that I’m only sorry my small act of courtesy was necessary.” Then her smile turned pensive and finally faded. “Your brother seems a very extraordinary person. There’s a light about him. Lectris would call it a Beyond Light. Will he . . . always have to use crutches?”

Alexand tried not to think about the real answer to that.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I’m sorry. But if that’s the case, he’s fortunate in having you as his brother.”

It wasn’t flattery; it was a simple statement of opinion; an observation.

“No more fortunate than I in having him as my brother.”

She looked up as they passed under an arched bower heavy with climbing roses. “Is Ser Richard well this morning?”

“No, he isn’t.” He answered without thinking, then felt it necessary to qualify the answers perhaps because of the flash of alarm in her eyes. “He’ll be all right. It’s just that yesterday was a very tiring day, and an unhappy one for him, even without the incident at Grandser’s. We lost our tutor. He . . . had to retire.”

“Lector Rovere?”

“Yes, but how did you know—”

“He’s a friend of my tutor’s. Corinth has spoken of him often and insisted on my reading some of his theses. I can understand Ser Richard’s distress. I’d be devastated if I should lose Corinth.”

“It was especially painful for Rich; his studies are very important to him.”

She paused, then, “And it wasn’t painful for you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But you consider yourself more capable of bearing it.”

He looked at her sharply, but she only smiled.

“Ser Alexand, we’ve been brought up in the same school.” Then she turned away, as if to spare him the necessity of meeting her gaze directly.

After a moment, he said a little stiffly, “It’s just that Rich is more vulnerable in some areas. But all he needs is some rest. Mother’s taking him to our Barrier Reef estate tomorrow. He loves the sea.”

“The universal balm, so they say.” Then she added with a short laugh, “At least, so Terrans and Polluxians say. I’ll envy you your holiday at the beach.”

“Envy Rich this time. I’m going to Montril with Father tomorrow.”

“Montril. Oh—Canadia. Lord Fallor’s Home Estate is there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and DeKoven Woolf has a factory site there.”

“Ah. A tour of inspection, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” He smiled, noting the ironic laughter in her eyes, noting irrelevantly the reflection of the pink of her gown in her cheeks. “There’s also the problem of negotiating a new lease on the factory site; Fallor owns the land.” And, he thought, the problem of Julia. Another potential bride, one he wasn’t looking forward to meeting again.

Adrien was frowning thoughtfully. “I’ve caught a few unguarded remarks from my father about Charles Fallor. I suppose he exacts a high price for that site, and I’m sure he wouldn’t consider selling it to your father outright.”

“Not when he can pocket a nice profit on the lease.”

“And it makes a good lever.”

Alexand studied her curiously. “Yes, it does.”

She nodded. “Fallor can use any extra profit now, with D’Ord Hamid cutting into his grain markets, and any levers. But levers tilt both ways. Your father always has the option of giving up the factory site, which would put Fallor—you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately regretting the laughter than came so unconsciously. “I was only surprised to hear you speak of these business matters so casually.”

“Why? Because proper Ladylings aren’t supposed to know about such things?”

“I’m not sure what proper Ladylings are supposed to know, but I’ve yet to meet one who
is
aware of such things. Even among the Ladies, I know of only two who show any cognizance of business or politics: Honoria Ivanoi and my mother.”

“You put me in impressive company, Ser Alexand.”

“I think you’ll belong there one day.”

“Now, that does flatter me.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” She studied him and seemed to be weighing his words, then pushed her hair, caught in a light gust of wind, back from her face. The wind had the scent of rain in it.

“This is an error,” she said softly.

Alexand stopped, wondering if he’d misunderstood her. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t have to wonder what was an error. He’d said it himself: One could love a young woman like this. And if she understood that, too . . .

It could only be a double error.

She smiled wistfully and continued down the path.

“Ser Alexand, you’re a rare young man,” she said lightly, “but I won’t test your patience with further discussion of business and politics; they can be very tiresome.”