First, the colonel took out the crimson armband that signified alector misconduct or blood wrongly shed, or both, and fastened it into place on his upper left sleeve below the shoulder. Then he checked his sidearm and straightened his tunic.
After leaving his study, he went to find Undercaptain Zernylta, third squad leader and acting commander of First Myrmidon Company in the absence of Captain Ghasylt, who had left with the marshal early that morning to fly to Iron Stem.
Zernylta was standing by the duty desk, talking with the duty officer, Undercaptain Yuasylt.
“Zernylta?”
“Yes, Colonel?” Zemylta was a slender alectress, but tall and wiry. Like Dainyl, she had blue eyes, rather than the violet usual for most alectors. Her crimson armband was already in place.
“Third squad will be escorting the prisoner. Are they prepared?”
“I just checked. They all have their armbands and sidearms, and the crystals are fully charged. The prisoner was brought in a glass ago, and he is in the holding cell. The duty coach is already standing by at the Hall of Justice.” She paused. “What was he actually convicted of, Colonel?”
“According to the briefing sheet,” Dainyl replied, “he abused his house servants, physically and sexually, and he used Talent contrary to the Code of the Duarches.”
“Stupid,” murmured the black-haired woman. “Abusing steers is bad enough, but to force sex, and then use Talent to cover it up—he deserves more than he’ll get.”
While that wasn’t possible—the sentence was death— Dainyl understood what she meant. Being an alector granted one power, but also entailed great responsibility, and the Archon and the Duarches punished abuse of that power severely. There wasn’t any option, not with so few alectors compared to the millions of indigens and landers.
He nodded and walked down toward the north end of the building to check the holding cell and third squad. After inspecting and checking all that was necessary, finally, at a quarter before the third glass, Dainyl stepped out into the courtyard behind the headquarters building. The two remaining squads of First Company—first and second squads—and their pteridons were forming up to the south of the flight stage. Third squad would be escorting the prisoner, and half of fourth squad had gone with the marshal, while the other half was out flying dispatch runs.
Dainyl turned and surveyed the circular graystone platform that stood in the center of the courtyard behind the Myrmidon headquarters—the flight stage for the pteridons.
The stone stage stood a yard and a half above the paved courtyard and also doubled, if infrequently, as it did now, as the site for the administration of justice to alectors. The raised stones were empty, with only the justice stand—a crossbar affixed atop a single post—set in place for what was to come.
After several moments, Dainyl turned back to the south and walked toward Undercaptain Ghanyr. Behind the un-dercaptain were four Myrmidon rankers and, set as closely as they could be, which still took a square a good thirty yards on a side, five pteridons, blue wings folded back, blue crystalline eyes looking forward.
Did the pteridons anticipate what would come? Dainyl had never known, even with his own, back when he’d been a ranker, then a junior officer.
“We’re ready, sir.” Ghanyr glanced down at his arm and the crimson armband. “Hate wearing it.”
“We all do. That’s why it’s required.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dainyl moved toward Undercaptain Yuasylt, who had left the headquarters building just before the colonel, and second squad and its pteridons. The pteridons of third squad were ranked just behind those of first and second squad, but without their riders, since third squad was providing prisoner escort.
“Almost ready, Colonel,” announced Yuasylt.
“Good.” Dainyl wasn’t certain he was ready, necessary as what was about to happen might be. As he had surveyed the courtyard and the squads of First Company, alectors from all around Elcien had begun to arrive, coming in by themselves, in groups of two or three, and standing on the north side of the landing stage. He could see several assistants of the Duarch, quietly noting who had appeared.
Finally, Dainyl turned. “Myrmidons, ready!”
“First squad, present and ready!”
“Second squad, present and ready!”
With that, Dainyl turned and waited, standing at attention.
As Dainyl and the Myrmidons continued to wait, more alectors slipped into the courtyard. With just a few moments before the third glass of the afternoon, more than a hundred alectors—besides the Myrmidons—stood waiting. Although the day was not that hot, Dainyl could feel perspiration oozing down the inside of his uniform, more a result of his own discomfort than of any real heat, pleasant as the cloudless harvest afternoon was.
From the headquarters building came three deep chimes. All conversation and whispers died away.
The High Alector of Justice stepped from the headquarters building. He wore a tunic and trousers of purple, trimmed with black. Upon his upper left sleeve was a crimson armband identical to the ones worn by all the Myrmidons. Across his chest was a black sash. Behind him were his two assistants, attired in a similar fashion, except without the sash. One carried the lash, with its black tendrils, tipped with razor-sharp barbs. The other carried the mace of justice.
The High Alector climbed the steps to the landing stage and walked to the center, placing himself three yards back of the empty justice stand.
“Bring forth the malefactor!” The High Alector’s deep voice boomed across the courtyard.
The doors of the headquarters building opened, and Undercaptain Zernylta stepped out, followed by two rankers. Behind them stumbled an alector in nearly shapeless dark red trousers and shirt, barefooted, with his hands manacled behind his back. Two more Myrmidons walked behind the malefactor.
The courtyard remained quiet as the Myrmidons escorted the alector in red to the steps onto the stage, then to the justice form.
The High Alector stiffened slightly as the Myrmidons unshackled the prisoner. Dainyl could sense the immense well of Talent marshaled to strike, if necessary, but the malefactor did not move as his wrists were clamped to the frame and a red hood was slipped over his head. The Myrmidons stepped back, reforming behind the alector and his two assistants, one male and one female.
In the silence, the High Alector stepped forward. “We are here to do justice. You are here to see justice done. So be it.” He turned toward the alector strapped to the frame “You, Bealtyr of Elcien, have abused those who trusted you. You have betrayed the trust placed in you by the Archon and the Duarches. You have deceived, and you have cheated all who live upon Acorus by your acts. For your crimes, you have been sentenced to die.”
The High Alector paused, then turned to accept the lash from the taller assistant, who then stepped back. The otüer assistant stepped forward, holding the Mace of Justice in her hands.
“Justice will be done.” The High Alector of Justice raised the lash, and struck.
The barbs on the lash were sharp enough to shred normal cloth and flesh with but a single blow, but the lash was as much symbolic as physical because, as the lash struck, the High Alector used his Talent and the crystals concealed within the Mace to rip chunks of the very lifeforce from the malefactor. Rather than waste that energy, it was funneled to the pteridons formed up behind first and second squads, who drew it and stored it for when they would next fly.
The High Alector needed but five strikes from the lash barbs before the figure in the tee-frame slumped forward, unconscious, blood splattered across his back and oozing over the red garments.
Brief as those five strokes had been, even so, Dainyl had to brace himself against the agony radiated from the malefactor and Talent-spread across the watching alectors. He watched as several alectors swayed. One young man pitched forward, and those beside him barely caught him before he would have struck the paving stones of the courtyard.
Two more strikes of the lash
followed before Dainyl could sense the emptiness that signified death. He managed to keep his lips tight together.
“Justice has been done.” The High Alector nodded to the assistant with the Mace.
She turned the Mace on the figure in the frame. A pinkish purple haze flared over the dead alector, then vanished. Only the empty frame remained.
Actually, the Mace was attuned only to the specially treated red clothing. With death, the alector’s body would have turned to dust and less in moments, but the use of the Mace provided absolute visual closure.
Had justice been done? Dainyl wasn’t sure of that. He was more than certain that, without the visual and emotional reminders provided by the spectacle—and the required regular attendance by all alectors—that far more abuse of position and Talent would have occurred. Great power required even greater checks, as pointed out so clearly in the Views of the Highest, and by there being two Duarches sharing the administrative powers delegated by the Archon on Ifryn.
But did such checks provide true justice? That was another question, one that Dainyl could not answer, not honestly.
6
On Novdi afternoon, two glasses before sunset, Dainyl and Lystrana stepped through the center archway and into the concert hall of the Palace of the Duarch of Elcien. Dainyl wore the blue-trimmed gray formal uniform of a Myrmidon colonel while Lystrana wore brilliant blue trousers and a matching shimmersilk shirt, with a short vest of paler blue. The vest was short enough that the wider, silver-gray belt that matched her boots was fully visible.
Dainyl surveyed those already seated, without seeming to do so.
“Seventy five,” murmured Lystrana so softly that only he could have heard her, even with Talent-boosted hearing. “We’re late.”
He repressed a faint smile, as they moved forward. “Not too late. The Duarch isn’t here.”
Twenty five tables were arrayed in an arc on the polished marble floor. Five chairs were set around one side of each circular table, positioned so that all five could view the dais on which four empty chairs awaited the performers. The center two tables—reserved for the Duarch and his wife and guests—provided an unobstructed view of the dais.
The octagonal floor tiles of green marble were linked by smaller diamond tiles of gold marble, and each tile was outlined in brilliant bronze. The center of the floor just below the performing dais was inset with an eight pointed star of golden marble a yard across, also outlined in a thin line of a brilliant bronze. The hangings on the side walls were green velvet, trimmed in gold, and set at precise intervals to damp echoes without muting the quality of the sound.
“We can sit with Kylana and Zestafyn,” suggested Lystrana.
“Of course.” Dainyl understood that his wife’s mild words were anything but a suggestion. Kylana was the assistant to the High Alector of Transport, and her husband was officially the Duarch’s liaison to the regional alectors. Effectively, he was the head of intelligence for the Duarch of Elcien.
“Your mother is at the next table,” murmured Lystrana.
“I wouldn’t have expected her. She usually avoids chamber concerts.”
“Exactly.”
Dainyl continued to the table ahead, then stopped and bent, smiling at the black-haired woman—not that any alector had hair other than shimmering black—who looked no older than her son. “I hadn’t expected you here.”
Alyra returned her son’s smile. “Every so often I do come to a concert.” Her smile widened slightly as her eyes moved to Lystrana. “Congratulations, dear.”
“Thank you. Might I call upon you in the future?”
“Always… you’ve done so much for Dainyl.”
Dainyl kept smiling. Lystrana had done much for him. She’d advised him and guided him for nearly thirty years, long before they were married, from when he’d been an undercaptain with few prospects—and he’d listened and learned,.especially about enhancing his Talent. He’d never been able to learn much from his mother, not with her arrogance.
“He’s done it all himself, Alyra. I’m just good at listening.” Lystrana smiled warmly, projecting warmth in a way that Dainyl had great difficulty emulating. “We must talk later. I see Kylana beckoning.”
Dainyl kept his smile in place until they were well away.
Lystrana squeezed his hand gently, then spoke to the woman at the table they approached. “Kylana… if we could join you?”
“We’d be delighted.” Kylana gestured to the seats to her husband’s right. She was extremely short and slender for an alector, not even quite two yards tall, with a narrow face and deep-set golden eyes—a throwback to a bad translation by her grandmother, she’d claimed. Dainyl suspected it was the result of her own translation from Ifryn to Acorus, not that he would ever have said so.
Lystrana eased into the chair beside Zestafyn, and Dainyl took the one to Lystrana’s right.
“The word is that you had an interesting day in Tempre on Octdi,” offered Zestafyn, turning to Lystrana.
“The missing golds, you mean? They weren’t missing at all, it turned out. Just misrecorded.” Lystrana paused as a lander serving girl appeared. “The Vyan Amber Crown.”
“The same,” added Dainyl.
The server girl nodded politely and slipped away.
“Victyn was most relieved,” continued Zestafyn. “He is a good sort, especially for a lander, and he does try very hard.”
“Sometimes, those are the worst,” observed Kylana. “They wish to follow every rule and procedure. They forget who gave them those procedures. I wish that we were allowed to tell them of Ifryn and the power that resides there. Then, they wouldn’t forget.”
Dainyl had his doubts about that. Even alectors tended to forget about powers that were distant and not exercised. That had been one of the points of the public execution— public only to alectors.
“Dearest,” replied Zestafyn, “that may be, but it’s a waste of time to blame a tool for operating the way it was designed.”
“Zestafyn is so philosophical,” said Kylana.
“Just practical.” The liaison’s deep voice was matter-of-fact.
Dainyl nodded as politely as he could, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long before the Duarch appeared and the concert could begin. Unlike many, he’d actually come for the music. At times, he had to wonder what a concert might be like in Illustra, with a full orchestra and thousands of compositions from which to select. Then, if Acorus were to be chosen to host the master scepter, there would be more music, and plays, and a greater flowering of art and innovation.
A single high chime interrupted his thoughts—and the conversations around him. All the alectors stood as the Duarch entered the concert hall. At three yards in height, he was an impressive figure even among alectors, with his bril-liant white face, flashing purple eyes, and hair so deep and black that, paradoxically, it seemed to radiate light. His smile and the Talent behind it warmed the room.
“Please. I apologize for being late. Let us enjoy the music.”
Beside the Duarch was his wife, who also functioned as a regional auditor, and her smile was almost as warm. One hundred and seven alectors now sat at the tables in the concert hall. Roughly two thirds of the alectors assigned to Elcien, reflected Dainyl, a trifle low for a concert, but then all had heard the quartet before. The novelty was not in the players, but in the latest compositions sent through the great translation tube from Ifryn with the infrequent translations of Myrmidon rankers or other lower level alectors.
Dainyl was in fact a rarity, a senior Myrmidon officer born on Acorus who had worked his way up from being a ranker into the officer corps. That he had not tested well as a youth so many years before had always put off his mother and doubtless had retarded his progress. Then, too, it had not helped that he had been thought to have limited Talent and had no ties to the Duarches and no close personal links to any of the high alectors, and had not had any until he had met Lystrana—and those were but indirect. Under the circumstances, he’d d
one extraordinary well. Myrmidon officers with limited Talent and no connections seldom rose above majer, and never above colonel.
He glanced up as the four performers, all in the black and green of music, walked onto the dais and bowed to the Duarch before seating themselves, the hand harpist on the far left, beside the five string violist, and both across from the side flautist and knee bassist.
“They’ve been practicing this recital for a month,” Lystrana said mildly.
That such practice took place after the musicians’ normal duties was understood.
Three notes from the hand harp, slow and deliberately struck, filled the hall. Then, the slow deep tones of the bass followed, joined by the viola.
Dainyl let the music wash over him, pushing aside the worries of the week.
7
Standing easy in his maroon and gray uniform, Mykel waited on the platform to the west of the river towers for the coach from Faitel to Elcien. South of the platform was the River Vedra itself, channeled between eternastone walls. Each river wall held a causeway wide enough for four transport coaches abreast.
“Think it’ll be late?” asked a Cadmian ranker several paces away.
“Never seen one late yet,” replied his companion. “Alectors want the coaches to run when they’re supposed to.”
With an amused smile, Mykel shifted his weight from one boot to the other, then glanced to the western end of the platform, where a handful of alectors waited beyond the stone railing separating the two sections. While the alectors never showed age, not any that he had seen, Mykel knew that the ones waiting were younger. Senior alectors traveled by pteridon, or through the mysteries of the Halls.
The captain snorted. Mysteries, indeed. For all their greater height and strength, the alectors were still mortals, although they had their secrets and guarded them zealously.
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