by M. K. Wren
“ ’Zion, it’s Ser Alexand—”
“What happened here? What happened?”
Damn, would they be quiet? The Bond—where was he?
“An accident! Sirra, I swear it!” The man was sobbing.
Alexand pulled himself up into a sitting position head pounding, trying to order his muddled senses in the welter of movements and voices surrounding him.
He must see that man.
“Holy God, what’s going on here?”
“—the Lord Woolf’s first born!”
“An accident, sirra! An accident!”
“. . . get this mess cleared before—”
“He’s coming! The Lord Woolf is coming!”
Alexand forced his eyes into focus on the wreckage of smashed cartons and shards of delicate machinery littering the floor; the silent hulk of the loader loomed over the disjointed activities of Fesh overseers and House guards.
“Ser Alexand?”
A hand on his right arm; one of the guards. Alexand pulled away. That grip was agonizing.
Yet he wouldn’t let the guard see the pain.
“Ser, let me help you.”
“No! I’m . . . all right.” He turned, reached for the railing with his left hand, and levered himself to his feet.
“The Lord Woolf . . .”
The approaching entourage sounded like a marching Confleet squad.
Fenn Lacroy called it stress-pain training, and Alexand put it to the test now. The breathing first, slow and deep, one breath for every five heartbeats; the ordered shift in concentration outward to the imminent threat. Alexand couldn’t let his father, or anyone, know he’d been injured. He wasn’t sure why. Only that it was necessary.
And he had been hurt. His right shoulder. It might be nothing more than a bad bruise or sprain; he was only sure that it was painful. He crossed his arms under his cloak so he could support his right arm with his left without making it obvious.
His father was moving toward him in the van of a wide-eyed cluster of officials and guards, with Kelmet Woolf only a pace behind him, but Alexand was intent now on the Bond. He was on his knees in the debris on the floor, flanked by two guards and an overseer with the meter-long, double-tongued rod of a charged lash ready in his fisted hand. The Bond observed his Lord’s approach with slack jaw, his face bloodless. He looked as close to death as any man Alexand had ever seen. And he was.
An accident. The whole thing was so badly thought out, there couldn’t have been any conscious planning behind it. Yet neither could Alexand doubt that this man had intended to kill him.
Why? That question must be answered.
And another question. At the last moment, the Bond had turned the loader. That must be answered, too. But not here; not now.
“Alexand! Are you all right?”
He turned to find his father close to him, the eagle visage a closed mask.
“Yes, Father.” He spoke carefully to avoid slurring the words. The pain was getting worse.
Woolf’s eyes narrowed, then moved in a comprehensive arc, taking in the wreckage, the loader, finally fixing on the Bond; his voice was ominously subdued.
“What are you called?”
The Bond cringed, then answered in a stumbling rush, “Quin, my lord. “Q-quin Selm. Oh, my lord, it—it was an accident! I swear—I swear by all . . . I never . . . meant . . .”
Woolf didn’t speak; he only looked at the man, eyes unyielding as stone, and that chill scrutiny silenced him, reducing him second by second to dumb paralysis; his head sank forward by degrees as if the muscles were giving way under the weight of his unspoken sentence. Alexand watched him numbly, and the irrational conviction grew in him that if his father spoke the word, “Die,” as a command, the Bond would die on the moment.
Finally, Woolf turned to his son. “Alex, what happened?”
He didn’t look at his father as he replied, but at the Bond. “It was an accident, Father, and I must admit it was my fault. If he hadn’t turned the loader in time, I’d be dead.”
Quin Seim. He must remember that name.
The Bond’s head jerked up, eyes glazed, uncomprehending.
“You’re . . . quite sure?” Woolf asked softly.
Alexand nodded. “Yes. Quite sure.”
Woolf frowned briefly. Alexand’s pallor hadn’t escaped him, nor the careful rhythm of his breathing, nor the tense set of his shoulders.
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that.” His hand went out to rest on his son’s shoulder in an apparently casual gesture, went unerringly to the right shoulder.
Alexand flinched; only a momentary flicker in his firmly controlled features, a jerking intake of breath.
Woolf turned away. “Fer Jenson, have you had any trouble with this man before?”
The warehouse foreman hesitated, frowning at Selm. “No, my lord, not to my knowledge.”
“Again, I’m relieved. Kelmet—” He looked around and found Kelmet Woolf eyeing Jenson doubtfully. “Alexand and I have had a long day. We’ll continue the tour tomorrow. Master Camden? Have my ’car brought to the landing roof.”
Camden relayed the order to a lesser official, then, hands clasped anxiously, “My Lord, I deeply regret this terrible incident. I’m only grateful Ser Alexand wasn’t hurt.”
“Yes. Now, tomorrow morning I want to discuss the assembly system for the new SynchCom transmitter. Have your techs available at 09:00.” He went to Alexand’s left side, every movement artfully casual, even when he leaned close, speaking in a low tone only he could hear.
“Can you walk?”
Alexand controlled his surprise, managing a quick nod, and Woolf turned to Camden and the waiting officials.
“I’ve noted some problems today which I’ll discuss with the various department heads later, but on the whole I’m pleased with what I’ve seen. You may all take pride in your work as the House takes pride in you.”
That called up a murmur of grateful comment and a flutter of bows, and Woolf started to move away, but Master Camden stopped him.
“My lord? Uh . . . the Bond. What shall we do with him?”
Quin Selm found himself the focal point of two pairs of DeKoven Woolf eyes and began trembling anew.
Woolf said tersely, “Nothing. It was an accident, and my son accepted full responsibility.”
The Bond stared blankly, and it was only after two attempts that he managed to get any coherent words out.
“M-my lord, the Holy Mezion bless you! And—and you, Ser . . .” He gazed at Alexand with even less comprehension, and there met only a cool stare.
Quin Selm hadn’t seen the last of him, but now Alexand turned to face the seemingly hopeless task of reaching the landing roof without giving way to the pain that sapped his strength and spread an icy chill over his skin.
Nulgrav lifts, corridors, pedways—an endless distance. He refused to surrender. And all the while, his father was at his side, a ready presence. More farewells at the landing roof; interminable pleasantries, and somehow Woolf got rid of Kelmet. Finally, Hilding at the open door of the ’car, and once inside, Alexand heard his father’s voice, blurred against the ringing in his ears.
“Hilding, get us to the estate as quickly as possible! And ’com ahead to Dr. Dall. I want her waiting in Alexand’s suite when we arrive.”
Generators whined, sudden acceleration pressed him back into the cushioned seat, and finally he could give in, could take his father’s hand and hold on, squeezing hard against the pain.
8.
The sun had long ago set; the windowall to his left was dark, spangled with distant lights hazed in snow.
The door slid open and Alexand turned his head on the pillow to watch the soft-treaded approach of Dr. Hariet Dall, gray-haired, wearing an antiseptically
white tunic with the red Conmed caduceus on her allegiance badge. She came around to the left side of the bed, eyes moving in a quick visual assessment.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It’s 19:10, Ser. Have you been awake long?”
“A while. I don’t know how long.” His watch, along with the rest of his clothing, had been removed. He lay quiet, enjoying the warmth of the thermblanket. His right shoulder was bandaged, his arm immobilized in a sling; there was some pain, but it was bearable.
“Well, let’s see how you’re progressing.” She strapped a biomonitor cuff on his left wrist, paused to study the readings, then removed it with a brief nod of satisfaction. “Your physical readings are good. How do you feel?”
“All right. What’s your diagnosis?”
“Oh, aside from assorted bumps and bruises, you broke your collarbone. Rather a bad break, too, but I doubt there’ll be any permanent impairment to the use of your arm.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to him, and he felt a momentary alarm even as she assuaged it.
“Ser, your lord father is waiting anxiously for news of you. Do you feel well enough to see him now?”
“What? Oh—yes, ’com him, please. He’ll be worried.”
And, he added to himself, angry. Alexand had broken one of his father’s cardinal rules: Never go among Bonds, or into a Bond area alone.
Dr. Dall politely retreated into the adjoining salon when Phillip Woolf arrived. He was dressed in formal regalia, shades of blue with silver brocade, dress boots of a blue so dark as to seem black. He sat on the bed beside Alexand, his frown of disapproval leavened with concern.
“Alexand, I won’t lecture you on wandering into Bond areas without a guard. That shoulder should provide enough of a lesson. Are you comfortable?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I caused so much trouble, and the lesson is quite clear.” Then he frowned, noting his father’s formal attire. “ ’Zion, I forgot—the dinner at the Fallor Estate.”
“Yes. I’ve prepared myself for it, but I’m not sure I should leave you tonight.”
“Father, you know I’m in good hands with Dr. Dall, and I feel very well, really. Besides, you have the lease negotiations to consider.”
“Unfortunately. At any rate, you’ll be delivered from the evening’s festivities. No doubt Serra Julia will be quite disappointed.” His expression was carefully noncommittal, but there was nothing gratuitous about that casual reference to Julia.
“Well, that might be one way to solve the lease problem in the future,” Alexand said flatly, as much aware of the coolness of his own tone as he was of his father’s probing gaze. “And Fallor is a habitual fence rider on the Directorate. An alliance by marriage should put him more consistently in the Galinin-Woolf camp.”
After a moment, Woolf said, “You’ve never told me what you really think of Julia.”
“I don’t really know her. Anyway, she’s only thirteen—and don’t laugh because I’m only fifteen.” Woolf managed to restrain his amusement while Alexand added, “At any rate, my feelings for Julia at the moment have no bearing on the future.”
“At the moment, no. But remember this, Alex—as I do—an Elite marriage is an irrevocable covenant, and no House can withstand the stresses of a bad marriage without suffering from it.”
Alexand only nodded, and his father’s next question caught him entirely off guard.
“Tell me, what did you think of Serra Adrien Eliseer?”
Alexand felt his cheeks go hot, but that he couldn’t control.
“I . . . I enjoyed talking with her very much.”
Woolf studied him, smiling almost imperceptibly, then, “She’s a very bright girl, so Elise tells me.”
Alexand said tightly, “Yes, she is.”
“And blessed with the Shang features. In fact, your mother assures me she’ll be a swan one day.”
A swan. A black swan. The currents of passage fan out in intermeshing waves endlessly. . . .
He cleared his throat and looked for his watch, forgetting it wasn’t on his wrist.
“Father, it’s getting late. I mustn’t keep you.”
Woolf hesitated, then with a nod came to his feet. “I won’t stay long, but I suppose I must put in an appearance.” He switched on the intercom by the bed. “Dr. Dall, come in, please.” Then he turned to Alexand with a black, arched brow raised. “I’ll convey your regrets to the Fallor as convincingly as possible.”
Alexand smiled. “Well, there had to be some recompense for this shoulder.”
“No doubt.” Then, as the door opened, “Dr. Dall, my son tells me he’s feeling very well. At least he assures me he’s in good hands with you. I’ll go on to the Fallor Estate. You can reach me there.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about, my lord.” She reached into a pocket and took out a small pill case, then filled a plasex cup with water from the dispenser on the bedside table. “Ser, I’m going to give you a sedative. It’s very important now that you get plenty of rest.”
Alexand tensed at that. He had an abiding distrust of sedatives and, beyond that, personal and compelling reasons not to let himself be sedated now. He watched helplessly as Dr. Dall uncapped the case and extended it toward him, ready to tap a capsule into his hand.
She said firmly, “Come, Ser, get this down. Your lord father won’t be so worried if he knows you’re resting.”
Alexand glanced at his father, then held out his hand for the capsule and quickly brought it to his mouth. Dr. Dall had the water ready, but after the first swallow, he began to cough, grimacing—with no pretense—at the cutting pain in his shoulder.
“Lean back, Ser. A deep breath . . . slowly now . . . there, that’s better.”
The spasm disappeared, and with it the capsule—under the covers. He took a long, careful breath, searching for any awareness of his deceit in the doctor’s eyes. There was none, nor any in his father’s anxious gaze.
“Alex, you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yes, of course, Father. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll try not to. Dr. Dall, you have an open ’com line to me. Don’t hesitate to use it.” Then he pressed his son’s hand briefly. “Rest well, Alex.”
“I will. Good night.”
He closed his eyes, listening to his father’s fading footsteps, the snap of the closing door. Dr. Dall didn’t leave. She would when she thought him well asleep. He’d simply have to wait.
9.
Alexand had anticipated some of the problems he would encounter on entering the compound and forearmed himself. His suite was as a matter of course furnished with a comconsole equipped with House memfile inputs, which were open to him with the computer’s identification of his voice print. Thus he knew there were six compounds, each housing ten thousand Bonds, and that a Bond named Quin Selm was registered to Compound A, Block SE-15-FU322, and that the work shift to which Selm was assigned ended at 20:00. From that he guessed the airshuttles would arrive at the four compound gates at about 20:30.
The memfiles, however, could not tell him exactly where in Compound A Quin Selm might be at this particular time, and he was well aware that finding one Bond in this small city would be difficult, if not impossible, since he couldn’t ask any of the guards or overseers for information. If they recognized him, which was likely, they’d feel obliged to inform Lord Woolf that his son was wandering about a Bond compound unescorted. But he had in mind a solution to the problem of locating that one Bond.
He was also aware that he was breaking his father’s rule again, going alone among Bonds, but there was no alternative to that. He would have some answers.
There were other problems, however, that he hadn’t foreseen. The cold, for one. The cold that seemed to numb every part of his body except his injured should
er, and there the frigid, snow-bearing wind served to intensify the ache.
The other unforeseen factor was fear.
Alexand had little experience with fear, and it didn’t occur to him to expect it. He’d never ventured into a Bond compound like this, incognito and without guards, and he found himself in alien territory. A paradox, that. He would one day be Lord of these Bonds, the compounds would belong to him. Yet he didn’t belong in the compounds.
He had also forearmed himself—literally—with a light X laser in a spring sleeve sheath, but now as he rode an elevated pedway, anonymous in an equally anonymous crowd, the gun offered no assurance. The Bonds riding the ’way with him gave him a little space along with wary stares, yet he felt short of breath, hemmed in by voices, accents, odors, unfamiliar to him, and the sedate movement of the ’way seemed maddeningly slow.
But what he had anticipated as the worst hurdle was behind him. The gate. That had been surprisingly easy.
He had waited in the estate ’car near the north gate until the ’shuttles disgorged their loads of off-shift workers. His cloak was blue-gray, unadorned, typical Fesh attire, and he was tall enough not to seem obviously under age. A Fesh clerk or Grade I tech entering the compound on some minor errand. His face-screen was off, but the hood of his cloak was up, shadowing his face. Not unusual in view of the weather; most of the Bonds were similarly hooded.
He didn’t offer to show an ident card; he couldn’t, of course, but he wasn’t sure whether it was expected of a Fesh. Apparently not, or perhaps the guards were too distracted by the influx of Bonds, who were expected to present their cards for the register comp. The guards let him pass without a second glance.
But here inside the compound his face-screen was on. He wasn’t so concerned about being recognized by the Bonds, who had no access to vidicom newscasts and only occasional access to the House comsystem, but there were a few Fesh in the compound, mostly the ubiquitous guards, and they weren’t conveniently distracted like the gate guards.