Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (40 page)

“There were no other witnesses?”

“Just Mike, who can only testify that he was knocked out by two men in face-screens. I suppose he was intended to be the scapegoat for Ben’s murder. Of course, the alarms pulled quite a crowd after it was all over.”

Alex leaned back, absently scanning the screens. “The alarms pulled them to a scene that could be interpreted in a number of ways, Erica.”

“I know, but I haven’t had a chance to find out how it
is
being interpreted. Predis will probably try to make Ben the villain now; he
did
kill the two men.”

“But Compton can establish the fact that they were waiting for him. As soon as possible, we’d better transfer him here to the exile staff. Fina won’t be safe for him.”

“I know. Well, there’s one thing you might call a benefit to come out of all this: Ben’s been forced to retire from the SSB. Willie’s setting it up. A ’car accident; an explosion, and if the SSB thinks it’s sabotage, that will only make Major Venturi a hero in their minds.”

There was a huskiness in her voice that was becoming increasingly marked, for her a symptom of exhaustion that Alex had long ago learned to recognize.

“Erica, you’d better get some rest.”

“I will, but first there’s something else you should know about. Willie just told me about it a few minutes ago. He had a report from Dal Wood, one of the agents assigned to the search for Lady Adrien. Dal is almost sure he’s found Lectris.”

Alex’s breath caught, his throat constricted on the question. “Where?”

“Saint Petra’s of Ellay. It’s near—”

“Oriban, yes, I know. You said
almost
sure. No positive ident yet?”

“Not yet. The Bond Dal spotted is wearing a Church tabard; he’s a groundskeeper in the children’s play court, and that’s just outside the cloister. The court is closed to anyone but Church personnel; closed with walls and guarded gates. But Dal will try to get some telelens imagraphs.”

“Well, keep . . . keep me posted.”

She laughed gently at that tense request.

“Oh, I thought we’d just wait until it was all over, and I’d send you a capsule—”

“Erica, how you’re up to making jokes right now, I don’t know, but I haven’t your . . . guts.” Still, he was laughing, and the release of tension was welcome.

“Or my gall? Just remember, Alex, even if we’ve found Lectris, we haven’t found Adrien. I don’t doubt she’s in Saint Petra’s if he’s there, but she’ll be in the cloister wrapped in about ten meters of blue habit with a veil she doesn’t have to lift for anyone. We’ll have to get a female agent in as a novice, and that won’t be easy. The Sisters are rather exclusive.”

“At least we’re getting closer, Erica.”

“Bruno Hawkwood is undoubtedly getting closer, too. Willie says he’s apparently given up his inquiries in the Outside. The cloisters are an obvious alternative.”

“He hasn’t found her yet; she’s still alive. The Moon Princess still reigns in the Selasid Estate. And don’t qualify your good news with objections just to force me to take a positive stand against them.”

Her laugh was half a sigh. “You’re a very difficult man to manipulate. I’m giving it up for now and going to bed. I’ll call tomorrow and let you know how Ben’s doing. We can discuss the Council meeting then.”

“All right, and when Ben’s conscious, tell him I wish to hell I’d been there to make the odds more even.”

“He did all right by himself. Good night, Alex.”

“Good night, and Erica—be careful.”

He put the headset down on the counter, mouth drawn into a grim line, then came to his feet. “Jael, let’s adjourn to the conference room. I want to hear about this war of Ussher’s.”

Jael gave a short mirthless laugh.

“Come on. It’ll turn your guts, but we might as well get it lined out.”

Adrien heard the second pair of soft footsteps on the worn stone and looked up along the shadow-patterned colonnade through the haze of her veil toward the approaching veiled figure. The first pair of footsteps were her own, measured and even. With little conscious effort she had assumed many of the outward characteristics of the nuns in her two months at Saint Petra’s. No—nearly two and a half months now. She found herself walking always with that measured step, head bowed, hands thrust into the full sleeves of her blue habit.

She studied the approaching figure, searching for the subtle clues of identity. That had been disturbing at first, these veiled figures wrapped in anonymity, but she’d learned to look for differences in height and weight, posture and step, and trained her ear to voices. Except for Sister Thea, she had seen none of the faces behind these veils.

The nun approaching wasn’t a novice; her koyf was blue, not the white of the novice’s koyf Adrien wore. Sister Helen. The identifications were coming easier now. Adrien paused when they met and bowed her head respectfully.

“Good morning, Sister Helen.”

“Good morning, Sister Iris. How are you feeling today?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good. Lord bless.”

“’Bless, Sister.”

Adrien smiled as she listened to Sister Helen’s fading footsteps. Her question had been more than an amenity. She was genuinely concerned about Adrien’s health. At five months, the pregnancy was becoming obvious in spite of the fullness of her habit. That she was pregnant raised no eyebrows in this cloister; because of its special calling the Order made exceptions unthinkable in others, and Adrien knew she wasn’t the first to enter the Order when she was with child. But she would probably be the first to leave it
with
her child. Or children, in this case. At least . . .

She frowned and crossed to the balustrade to look down into the play court through the intricate screen spanning the arched spaces between the columns. It was nearly time for the morning play period; she was waiting for the chimes in the triple spires of the cloister chapel to ring the hour.

The metal of the screen was cool under her fingers. A shaft of sunlight found its way through the leaves of the trees and caught on the gold band on her left hand, the symbol of commitment to the Sisters of Faith. She still wore Alexand’s ring on her right hand, but she had to be careful to keep it out of sight. The rules of the Order precluded wearing any jewelry other than the gold band and the chain of white prayer beads.

She would not surrender that ring, rules notwithstanding. Thea had given her a warning, but that was all. She seemed to understand this as she did so many things, purely empathetically.

Adrien’s fingers moved along the intertwining patterns of the screen, and she found herself smiling. Vision screens might have been installed to shield the arcade from curious eyes, but Saint Petra’s builders had been concerned with more than function. She didn’t know what kind of metal the screens were made of; it had a dull, golden patina. She only knew they were wrought by loving, patient hands. Written into the intricate designs were deities and saints, dictums and dogmas, history and parable; an entire ethos.

The screens were nearly two centuries old, and she knew their designers were Terran; the animal and floral motifs were based on Terran forms. She thought of those long-dead artisans whose passion for their god brought them to a newly colonized planet, an inhospitable wilderness. The passion was there in every line of the designs, but she read beyond it and felt the longing homesickness for a warm, green planet reaching out to her across the centuries.

Even the living flora and fauna here were Terran. The patriarchal trees shading the arcade, scenting the air with cool remembrances, gave shelter to bees, butterflies, and other insects she couldn’t identify; even to birds and gray, tuft-eared squirrels. She listened to the hidden buzzings and chirpings, knowing that in a few minutes they would be drowned in the pleasant cacophony of children’s shouts and laughter, and she was looking forward to it.

Sister Thea had assigned her and Mariet the duty of helping the teachers supervise the morning and afternoon play periods. Adrien had asked for the assignment. It was the only time she left the cloister, and she hesitated at exposing herself even for these short periods, but it had become a necessity for the sake of her sanity. There wasn’t enough to occupy her thoughts in the rest of her daily ritual. The lessons, the mandatory periods of prayer and meditation, the religious ceremonies, the everyday chores associated with maintaining this large, cooperative household—none of these demanded enough of her mental energies and time to hold the fear at bay.

She pressed one hand against the swelling curve of her abdomen. These entities existing within her, half formed but intensely living, were an integral part of her consciousness. She was thinking of these fragile beings locked in the warm, protective shell of her body. The cloister was another womb of sorts, a comfortable and safe haven.

But even the womb is a prison as well as a haven.

Two months and ten days.

Her fingers locked in the screen, metal cutting into her flesh.

Dear God, Alexand, find me. Husband and Lord, my Promised, beloved, Alexand, find me. Find me
. . . .

She held on to the screen, trembling, until she had herself under control again, until she put the memories, the fear, the mordant loneliness back into the farthest recesses of her mind. It was more difficult with every passing day, and the long nights were becoming intolerable.

Finally, her hands relaxed on the screen; she looked down into the court, forcing herself to concentrate on what she saw. Across the court in the school, the children waited in their windowed classrooms. In this section they were five to ten years old, and she found them a source of delight and satisfaction. It pleased her that some had already learned to recognize her and call her by name. Sister Iris. They learned early the secrets of identification.

The courtyard was surrounded by strips of green lawn interspersed with trees and flower beds where a handful of Church Bonds worked at a leisurely pace, tending them with primitive tools that didn’t disrupt the contemplative quiet. Lectris was one of those Bonds. She smiled when she saw him, leaning on his hoe almost directly below her. She recognized the risk in bringing him to Saint Petra’s with her; his height and bulk were impervious to disguise. But she’d had little choice, and now she found his presence a source of comfort. There was also a very pragmatic comfort in the fact that he carried a concealed gun, and on her twice-daily sojourns outside the cloister, he was always near her.

She heard a light laugh; a novice had joined Lectris. She was also waiting for the play period to begin; waiting for Adrien. Mariet. No—Sister Betha. Strange, it was harder to think of Mariet as Sister Betha than to think of herself as Sister Iris.

Mariet had chosen the name herself, after Saint Betha, she told Adrien, guardian of lost children. It had become bitterly appropriate, the “lost” part. But the thought didn’t call up the usual smothering anxiety now, and she attributed that to her little brother and sister below. She had always thought of them in those terms to some degree, but now it seemed even more fitting.

A week before the wedding, Adrien had taken them to a secluded spot in the Estate gardens and told them her plans, or what she felt they must know. They’d both been afraid, but neither hesitated, showing a childlike faith in her that almost made her weep. She told these two what she dared not even hint at with her family, and, as with Malaki, she felt no concern. They wouldn’t freely divulge anything she said if she asked a pledge of silence, and no one was likely to force them to betray her. At least not before the fact. But she couldn’t risk leaving them behind, knowing Bruno Hawkwood to be a thorough and conscienceless man.

She felt a chill and forced that thought back, too.

There was so much for which to be grateful. For one thing, that the cloisters were such anomalously democratic institutions. There were no class bars; anyone could enter the Order, Elite, Fesh, or Bond, if they met with the Supra’s approval. Bonds seldom applied, Sister Thea had told her; there had been more Elite applicants than Bond in her tenure here. But Bonds weren’t turned away simply because of their class. “The Holy Mezion calls all children His own,” Thea quoted in explanation.

Adrien suspected Saint Petra’s was more democratic than most convents because of Thea, and she was something else to be grateful for. Not only did she accept a supplicant whose very presence endangered everyone around her, but she graciously made a place for Lectris and assigned “Sister Betha” the room next to Adrien’s.

Lectris and Mariet were laughing. Adrien could hear their voices, but not the words. If she thought of them as brother and sister, she knew they thought of each other in the same way and perhaps to a greater degree. Mariet still teased Lectris, although she had to restrain the bantering here, and Lectris tolerated and looked after her exactly as he would a wayward little sister.

At length Adrien turned, pulling her shoulders back, aware of a dull ache in the small of her back. No doubt it would get worse in time. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and started toward the nulgrav lift at the end of the arcade, but the sound of hurried footsteps stopped her.

Sister Thea. Adrien waited, wondering at her purposeful pace, and, when Thea reached her and raised her veil, wondering at the uncertain frown deepening the lines in her forehead. Thea glanced warily up and down the colonnade.

“Sister Iris, I’m glad I found you alone.”

Adrien pushed back her own veil. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps I’m worrying over nothing. A young woman came to me today seeking entrance into the Order. I’ve dealt with many applicants in my time here, and I suppose I’ve developed a sort of sixth sense about them, and with your safety to consider, I’ve been especially—well, suspicious lately.”

Adrien nodded. “And this young woman?”

“She . . . didn’t seem to have the right attitude. It’s hard to explain, but even the applicants I know wouldn’t be happy here still have certain attitudes. They must be inclined to strong religious convictions or they wouldn’t seek entry. This girl didn’t have the right . . . feeling about her, although she was well versed in doctrine—more so than most—and answered all my questions freely, and I asked quite a lot.”