The Service of the Sword

knew the Masadans would respect the signs of age and had sought to acquire them.

For a fleeting moment, Michael wondered if he should have tried something similar. Then he rejected the idea out of hand. He was a prince of Manticore. Nothing would change that, and no cosmetic alteration would make him any more himself.

Greetings were framed in praise of God and His wisdom, but Michael had not grown to maturity in Mount Royal Palace without learning to hear the notes of self-congratulation in a man's voice—nor were they especially hard to detect here. Chief Elder Simonds was a man very pleased with himself.

With what Michael hoped would be taken for the modesty of youth before age, he set himself to listening silence while Ambassador Faldo and Mr. Lawler said the appropriate, flattering things to the Chief Elder, his attendant Senior Elders, and the very few mere Elders who had been permitted to attend this first private conclave.

He was doing very well until the doors slid open to admit a small contingent who were most definitely not Masadan. Like Ambassador Faldo's diplomats, they wore civilian clothes, but the styles were not Masada's flowing robes. Instead they were in the neat, trim-lined tailoring currently in fashion in the People's Republic of Haven.

As Ambassador Faldo handled introductions, Michael remembered that the Peeps also were wooing the Masadans. Chief Elder Simonds was too canny a politician to ignore this opportunity to show his other suitor the presumed mark of favor Michael's presence was assumed to be. Michael remembered the Moscow and forced his lips to keep from twisting into a cynical grin.

We see your heavy cruiser and raise it by one Crown Prince, he thought, but he let nothing of his amusement touch his manner as he replied to introductions.

Indeed, that was easy enough to do. Michael was one of a bare handful of people who knew that King Roger III's death had not been an accident, but an assassination—an assassination planned by and paid for by the People's Republic of Haven. Beth had been convinced against her own inclinations to keep the matter secret, and so Michael must do the same, but his tone was cool as he accepted Ambassador Acuminata's congratulations on his completing Saganami Island.

'I understand you are specializing in Communications,' Acuminata continued. 'That's an interesting choice. I would have thought Tactics, or perhaps Engineering would be more the Winton way.'

Michael pressed his fingernails into his palm, well-aware that he was being accused of cowardice and lack of ambition. Acuminata was only echoing what some of the more obnoxious newsies had been saying for years.

He forced a smile.

'Communications are very valuable. You wouldn't believe what you can learn if you only listen and watch, then draw the obvious conclusions.'

Acuminata blinked, but what he might have said in reply was lost when Chief Elder Simonds, aware he was no longer the central focus of the gathering, coughed.

'Shall we adjourn?' he said, and without waiting for a response swept out of the room.

The conclave was being held in an enormous hall where, to Michael's relief, the Havenite contingent was seated some distance away. To keep himself from glowering at them, Michael sought to distract himself by studying those individual Masadans who stood out from their fellows. The Faithful largely wore their hair and beards long, after the model of Old Testament prophets. Their formal wear continued the motif, consisting of flowing robes enhanced with heavily embroidered arm-bands and belts that almost surely marked achievements in individual careers.

Here and there, however, were men who wore their hair shorter, shaved their beards, and seemed less at ease in the long robes. Michael knew from Lawler and Hill's exhaustive briefings that Masada had a large navy, enhanced by a civilian merchant fleet. Doubtless these men had sacrificed their hair out of the practical considerations of space travel.

Michael's dark Winton complexion had drawn more than a few stares ever since they left the shuttle. Here he understood why. It was one thing to read that the bulk of the original members of the Church of Humanity Unchained had come from a limited segment of Earth's population. It was another to see it so openly demonstrated. Not only had the Masadans come from one stock, unlike the Manticorans, they clearly had not encouraged any immigration.

He noted a family resemblance among many of those seated together, and a seating order that seemed to indicate that age was given precedence. That made sense, given that their equivalent of a king was a chief elder.

Maybe we can work with that, he mused. We respect family, so do they. Titles and such are passed down in order of birth in the Star Kingdom. I'd bet anything that there's a preference for age and experience here over youthful ambition. 

Michael's self-imposed task was made easier in that most of those gathered in the Conclave Hall were studying him in turn, their gazes holding curiosity, unease, or, most often, open hostility.

They have never learned, he thought, amused, that being part of a crowd gives very little protection from being seen if one cares to look. These men may be bulls in their own herds, but they are cattle beneath the rule of these Elders who claim to speak for God. 

He felt very glad, then, to belong to the Star Kingdom of Manticore where, no matter that there was a House of Lords and House of Commons, a talented individual could rise on merit alone, and, where, best of all, no one claimed to have an exclusive idea what was the Will of God.

It rapidly became apparent, to Michael's relief, Lawler's frustration, and Faldo's resigned acceptance, that Chief Elder Simonds intended today's gathering of the Conclave of Elders to be his opportunity to show off his new prizes. Although questions were directed to the Manticoran guests, the answers were often given by Simonds or one of his toadies. It was long and wearying, rather like listening to a shout and its echo, so Michael let his attention drift.

It was for this reason he noticed when a messenger made his unobtrusive way to one of the family groups, one of those that Michael had noticed before because of the predominance of short-haired individuals.

Messengers were not uncommon. Any form of electronic communication was forbidden in this gathering of ostensible technophobes. However, there was something about the swift and purposeful way this messenger advanced that caught Michael's eye. He grinned to himself, wondering if some of Todd's preternatural awareness for human interaction had rubbed off on him.

The messenger did not speak with the head of the clan, but to someone who had to be an older son. Michael noted with mild curiosity that the son did not pass the message on to his father, nor did the father inquire after it.

Chain of command? he thought. I'd bet anything they've served together and the father has learned to trust his son's judgement. 

Michael felt a familiar flicker of grief. His father had died when he was thirteen T-years old. He'd never know if Roger III would have approved of him and his choices. Given that there were times Michael himself doubted the wisdom of his entering the Navy, he supposed he should be relieved.

Chief Elder Simonds was declaiming something forceful and poetic about how God would guide his Chosen to the path of greatest wisdom—a speech that was basically a put-down of someone who had had the temerity to actually suggest some sort of cost-benefit analysis of the advantages of an alliance with the Star Kingdom of Manticore—when Michael noticed another messenger heading for the spacefaring clan.

In the interim he'd checked the seating chart they'd been given and learned that these were the Templetons, headed by one Ephraim Templeton who apparently headed a prosperous merchant trading fleet. According to John Hill's briefing (when Michael consulted the notes he had stored on a discreetly concealed pocket computer) the Templetons were in the awkward position of having too much to do with hated technology to be trusted in high government, but of having too much wealth to be ignored.

This time Gideon Templeton, identified by Hill's amazingly comprehensive brief as the eldest son of Ephraim and captain in his own right of the trading ship Psalms, passed the communique to his father. Ephraim read it and Michael saw him scowl. He scribbled something for the waiting messenger and then returned his attention to what the Senior Elder was saying.

Michael would have bet anything that neither Ephraim nor Gideon were listening very closely any longer.