Free Sword of the Lamb by M. K. Wren Page A

varied, and more conservative, colors of Fesh apparel. At least a hundred thousand Bonds and Fesh were gathered here—and, through the electronic eyes of vidicams, millions more at vidicom screens throughout the Two Systems—to see their rulers in splendid array, to hear the Lord Galinin himself speak, to partake in the blessing of the High Bishop, the Revered Eparch Simonidis, and especially to see the spectacular fireworks display that would culminate the ceremony.
    The Hall and the buildings enclosing the Plaza’s longest sides were faced in glowing white marlite, windowalls mirroring the multicolored lights, the first-level promenades garlanded with flowers, the rows of ancient ginkgoes crowned with light. At the north end of the Plaza, the Fountain of Victory sent its arching jets in everchanging patterns fifty meters into the air, and at the south end, the wide tiers of the Hall of the Directorate’s steps served as a giant stage for the Court of Lords—the First Lords of the Thousand Loyal Houses—and their immediate families.
    The cast was nearly all assembled, Alexand noted. The Woolfs would be the next-to-last arrivals; DeKoven Woolf gave precedence to no House but Daro Galinin.
    On the second tier of steps at the front of this erstwhile stage, a podium was mounted, and from it hung a gonfalon bearing the crest of the Concord, the circled cross of the Mezion in gold on a background of black, with the constellation of the Southern Cross enclosed in the upper right quadrant. At one side of the podium, flanked by two lesser bishops, sat the Eparch Simonidis, dwarfed in a throne-like chair, weighted in jeweled miter and robes in the gold and white of the Church. Behind the podium was a short row of chairs, empty now, for the Lord Mathis Daro Galinin and his family; behind that a longer row for the remaining nine Lords of the Directorate and their families. They were filled, except for the four seats awaiting the Woolfs. Behind these, tiering up in rows of two hundred each, the families of the Court of Lords were seated, a sparkling mosaic of richly colored costumes. Behind them stood a rank of black-and-gold-clad trumpeters, instruments flashing like jewels, and lined against the white walls of the Hall were gonfalon bearers, whose bright banners bore the crests of all the Houses present. A glittering gathering, all the Lords and Ladies, Sers and Serras, in full panoply on this most important holiday of the Concord’s calendar.
    Merchant princes, Theron Rovere called them; masters of dynastic cartels; living fossils.
    Alexand frowned, concentrating on the scene below, noting the incongruous patches of black among the colorful raiment of the Elite: dress uniforms worn by young Lords serving their traditionally mandated four-year tour of duty with Confleet. That was something he had to look forward to at Age of Rights. Or, rather, to dread.
    The Faeton floated down toward the open area in front of the podium, which was cordoned off by Directorate guards, their golden helmets like bright beads on a necklace. The trumpets flashed, and dimly, through the thick glass, Alexand could hear the polyphonic
Salut
. He looked across the passenger compartment at his parents, both gazing out the windows, his father bored and impatient, his mother displaying a lively curiosity.
    Elise Woolf was resplendent, her hair an intricate crown of burnished curls and braids, her gown—not the peacock gown; that was for the ball—pale green satinet shimmering with crystal brocade, complemented by a full-length cape of
lapis
blue trimmed in sable. Phillip Woolf was attired in umber and ochre, his cloak fastened with loops of gold, dress boots adorned with gold chains, the doublet under the open surcoat rich with gold-threaded brocade. The latter served a purpose beyond decoration: the flexsteel strands woven into the design could stop a light laser beam or deflect a knife thrust. Alexand and Rich wore suits similar in style, including the