After a time, he set the short document on the top of the desk and walked to the window. The flight stage was empty, but the dispatch rider and pteridon would be there shortly.
He’d expected to read about Iron Stem and coal mines, but the first message was brief, warning him that the Duarch’s intelligence sources had reported unrest in Dra-mur, and the possibility of an actual insurgency. Because the terrain was not optimal for the Myrmidons and with the unsettled situation in Iron Stem, the marshal had ordered a Cadmian battalion to begin preparations for deployment to Dramuria.
Dainyl didn’t care for that—not when the marshal had stated that the unsettled situation in Iron Stem might be worse. Worse than an insurgency? Worse than the loss of higher level lifeforce that could entail, directly and indirectly? What was missing from the message worried him. Did it have to do with the concerns that had cost Tyanylt his life?
He turned back to the desk, opened the second envelope, and began to read.
The engineers in Faitel had gone to Iron Stem in early spring and opened a second coal mine. The High Alector of Trade in Ludar had arranged for additional malcontents to be trained as miners and transported to Iron Stem.
Somehow—and the marshal did not explain how it had happened—the local trade director, a lander, of course, had failed to make adequate preparations for housing the additional miners. Rather than admit his failure in obtaining the necessary cut stones or brick required for the barracks, in late summer he had decided to overcut the oaks in the area. The local garrison commander, a Cadmian overcaptain, had been forced to use two companies of mounted rifle to stop the timber harvesting. Then, someone had placed explosives in the main shaft of the coal mine and detonated them, shutting down the mine completely, and killing nineteen miners. The device used showed some considerable knowledge, the kind that could result in crude cannon.
Dainyl winced. Cannon and artillery were on the banned lists, not to be mentioned, and an immediate death sentence for any lander or indigen caught attempting to fabricate them. The recorders who used the Tables for surveillance continually scanned for evidence of such efforts, and so far there had been none in years, so far as Dainyl knew.
The existing stocks of coal for coking the ironworks at Iron Stem were sufficient only for a month—one of the reasons why the additional mine was being developed. An engineering team was being sent from Faitel with the equipment to reopen the mine, but it was likely to be at least another month before production could resume.
The overcaptain had rounded up the miners and requested an Alector of Justice. The High Alector of Justice had said that a marshal was all they deserved and had dispatched the marshal, with a guard of four pteridons.
Four pteridons? Dainyl frowned. Why would anyone do that? Every day the malcontents who were sentenced to the mines didn’t work added a day to their term. Stone-and-brick housing was warmer and more comfortable than timber—and the winters in Iron Stem were cold, if not so cold as those in places like Blackstear and Scien. Then, mature oaks provided better lumber, especially when they were harvested according to plan, and not just hacked down for a momentary need. Mature forests provided far more additional lifeforce than cutting and replanting with young trees and seedlings.
Didn’t the landers and indigens understand? Every tree, every additional stock animal, each one added to the life force and supplied the strength to improve life all across Corus. He snorted. Perhaps some landers did, but most didn’t, and even fewer truly cared.
A marshal was probably more than whoever had blown the shaft deserved.
Still… that a lander or an indigen had used explosives in such a fashion was disturbing. Equally disturbing was the marshal’s judgment that Iron Stem was potentially worse than an insurrection in Dramur.
After several moments, Dainyl turned back toward the door. He had to check the dispatches before the duty flier could depart.
10
Londi morning had come all too early, Mykel decided, as he stepped into the officers’ mess, yawning. Although the mess held just a half score of small wooden tables, he was the only officer there.
“The same as always, Captain?” asked the steward.
“Yes, please, but water the hot cider just a touch.” That was so he didn’t burn his throat.
“Yes, sir.”
Mykel took a corner table, and, shortly, the steward brought him a mug of cider and a platter with three slices of egg toast, drizzled with molasses syrup, along with two slices of ham, and an overripe golden apple. On the side was a quarter of a lime. “Apple’s best I can do, sir.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.” Mykel cradled the mug in his hands under his chin and let the warm cidery air rising from tthe mug wreath his face for a moment. After several sips, he picked up the apple and took a bite. It was mushy. It shouldn’t have been. Apples were in season.
With a grimace, he picked up the lime section, squeezed what he could over a section of the apple where he had taken a bite, then ate apple and lime juice. Then he forced himself to eat the lime. He took another sip of the cider, and, with relief, a bite of the egg toast
Dohark had entered the mess and was headed in his direction, platter in hand. The blocky older captain slid into the chair across the table from Mykel. “Kuertyl tell you about Dramur?” He took a bite of egg toast.
“He said something about it. You think he’s right?”
Dohark, his mouth full, shrugged, then swallowed before speaking. “He’s not so good in the field, but he always knows what’s going on in headquarters.”
“What do you know about Dramur?” asked Mykel.
“Big island, maybe five hundred vingts long, Got sharp assed mountains smack down the middle, and it’s hot and dry, except for a wet part on the west side. Hotter than Soupat. Only place with lots of people is Dramuria, and it’s a port. Oh… and it’s got bats, some of ‘em bigger than kids. That’s why there’s a port. They send mals there to mine the bat shit and ship it to Southgate. Put it on a field, thin like, and it’ll make anything grow.”
“So why do the Myrmidons want us there?”
“Because they don’t want to go and deal with a bunch of unhappy mal miners. That’s why.” Dohark took a long swallow of ale.
Much as Mykel liked ale, he couldn’t stand the taste of it in the morning. “What is it about Dramur? Bat shit isn’t that valuable, is it?”
“Maybe the alectors think it is. They get pretty tight when folks cut down trees they shouldn’t, things like that. My cousin, he had a swamp on the comer of his place, outside of Salcer. Decided that he could grow gladbeans there, make a bunch more silvers. He started to drain and fill, and before you knew it, there was an alector on his doorstep, telling him to put the swamp back the way it was. He was lucky—only got five lashes in the square.”
“Five lashes for draining a swamp? And he had to put cropland back to a swamp?”
“Don’t you remember your school lessons, Mykel? Swamps and forests are good for the land. Make it more productive. Don’t see how, but who’s going to argue with an alector?”
Mykel fingered his chin. What sort of sense did it make to leave a swamp, a place where there were bugs and snakes, and stagnant water, when you could turn it into a productive field? Still, Dohark was right. You didn’t argue with an alector.
“First glass after noon, we’re doing drills against Fifteenth,” Dohark said. “Your boys’ best do better than last time.”
“We’ll show you a thing or two.” Mykel grinned.
“Like your backsides clearing the drill field?” Dohark rose from the mess table.
Mykel laughed, letting the older captain depart. Then he finished the last of the ham and made his way from the mess to his study in the headquarters building.
Once there, he looked at the stack of paper waiting on one side of the wall desk. He could only hope that it would hold routine seasonal reports. Mykel riffled through the papers, suppressing a groan. He’d forgotten about the train
ing reports, and with the afternoon drills, he’d be writing late into the night for the days ahead.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. A squad leader, wearing the white braid of the headquarters’ staff, stood in the doorway.
“Captain Mykel, sir, Majer Vaclyn requests your presence in his study. At your soonest convenience, sir.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Mykel only waited until the squad leader was away from his door before following him back to the south end of the building. The majer’s study door was open.
“Have a seat, Captain.” Majer Vaclyn gestured to the chairs in front of the desk. “Please close the door behind you.” He was a typical Cadmian officer from pure lander stock, tall and muscular, blond, with fair skin and light green eyes. From appearances, except for the too ruddy cheeks, he could have been Mykel’s cousin. He wasn’t.
“What have you heard?” Vaclyn leaned back in his chair. On the corner of the desk were an oily rag and a sharpening stone—recently used on one of the majer’s throwing knives.
“Sir?”
“There are rumors all over the compound. I’d like to know which ones you’ve heard so that I can set you straight.”
“The whole battalion’s being sent to Dramur.” Mykel offered an easygoing smile. “No one seems to know why.”
“That’s because no one has been told why, except the colonel. Your story has the basic parts right. Then, you always do get that right.” Vaclyn gave Mykel a broad smile that the captain trusted not at all. The majer cleared his throat. “On Septi, Third Battalion will embark on the Duarches’ Valor. Full field kit, just like any deployment. The Myrmidons expect that our mission will take from two seasons to a full year.”
Mykel waited to see if Vaclyn would actually tell him the mission.
“A significant number of malcontents who have been serving terms as bat-dung miners have managed to escape. There are only two companies of Cadmian foot stationed at the garrison there, and they provide security for the mine…”
Prison guards, in effect, reflected Mykel.
“… Our task is twofold. First, we are to provide protection against the raids, both for the dutiful miners and for the local inhabitants. Second, we are to bring the fugitives to justice.” Vaclyn paused, then asked, “Do you have any questions, Captain?”
While Vaclyn’s tone was perfunctory, as if he didn’t want questions, Mykel replied. “Yes, sir. What sort of weapons do these fugitives have? Do they have mounts? Are any of the locals supplying them?”
“We have not been given such details. Doubtless, we will be briefed in the next few days. Any shortages in your company’s supplies, mounts, or authorized gear should be authenticated and reported by noon tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Mykel offered a curious and open smile. “Sir… if I might ask, what is it like, talking to a Myrmidon colonel?”
“He was very direct, and very brief. They always have been when they’ve talked to me. And, Captain,” added Vaclyn, rising as he spoke, “this afternoon’s drills will be the last before we embark. I trust I’ll see some improvement.” After the briefest pause, he added, “Did you have a good furlough?”
“Yes, sir. It was good to see my family.” Rising from the chair, Mykel offered a pleasant smile. Vaclyn’s question had been little more than perfunctory, but he had asked.
Mykel nodded in respect, then left the majer’s study, closing the door behind him. The majer’s response to his question about the alector puzzled him. Kuertyl had suggested several long meetings, and the majer had said the meeting was short. Vaclyn had lied to Mykel before, but this time he had felt like he was telling the truth—and so had
Kuertyl. Mykel had to wonder whom he was misreading. He hurried toward his study.
He kept walking, quickly, thinking. He and the squad leaders would have to audit all the equipment again, just to make sure nothing had disappeared in his absence. And then he’d have to finish all the reports after that.
11
On Duadi, Dainyl had made a point to be at Myrmidon headquarters for morning muster, since he would be the only senior officer there. Just before the glass, he stepped out of headquarters and strode into the courtyard.
“Company! Ready!”
The rankers and the undercaptains commanding each of the four squads stiffened. The pteridons did not move, but they seldom did at muster. The compound was more than a vingt square, not because of the number of Myrmidons but because each pteridon required its own quarters—and each pteridon square was thirty yards on a side with a massive perch across the roof. The muster of a Myrmidon company was impressive, for all that there were only twenty-one pteridons in a company, since a single company’s pteridons in ground formation took up an oblong a good hundred fifty yards by a hundred.
DainyFs eyes took in the nearest pteridon, the one behind Undercaptain Ghanyr. The blue leathery wings, when folded back against their bodies, were more than ten yards long. Extended, each wing was nearly twice that. The blue crystal eyes glittered like gemstones, but gemstones the size of platters. Beneath those eyes that held an inner darkness and seemed to take in everything and nothing was the long blue crystalline beak, hard enough to shatter iron. Dainyl’s pteridon—when he had been an undercaptain—had used its beak to shear an iron bar as thick as his wrist with one quick snap.
The shimmering gray saddle was strapped in place at the thickest part of the neck, above the shoulders that anchored the wings. In the holder attached to each saddle was a blue metal skylance that, when fully charged with the combination of light and lifeforce, could spew forth a line of blue fire capable of incinerating a squad of men in an instant.
Each of the two comparatively short legs ended in three crystal claws—two opposed by one, so that a pteridon , could grasp whatever it wanted, or perch in the most unlikely of locales, since the claws were as hard as the beak.
Three undercaptains reported their squads ready to fly, with most of third squad absent and accompanying the marshal.
“Stand easy,” Dainyl replied.
Only the slightest easing of posture followed his words.
“The marshal and the captain are still in Iron Stem. They’re likely to be there a while. I’ll let you know more as soon as I do. Dismissed to duties.”
As he turned, Dainyl thought he caught a sense of amusement from one of the pteridons. He’d often wondered what—and how—they thought. When a rider was injured or killed, the pteridon returned with the rider. It would not fly again without another rider—and transferring allegiance to another rider was an elaborate procedure unless the first rider was dead. I
Pteridons were Talent-created creatures that tapped the I forces of life and nature, and for that reason, there were only eight Myrmidon companies in all of Acorus. Still, eight companies had always been more than enough when a single pteridon and rider could take out an entire company of mounted rifles in a fraction of a glass. The number of pteridons was dictated more by the size of Coras and by the need for rapid communications that did not rely on the fourteen Tables than by any armed opposition—since there had seldom been any arms raised against the Duarchy except by infrequent and ill-organized lander and indigen uprisings over trifles.
Dainyl was headed back to his study when Zorcylt called out, “Colonel? There’s a message here.”
The senior squad leader held an envelope sealed in purple. The colonel recognized the seal of the High Alector of Justice. “It must be for the marshal.”
“No, sir. It has your name on it.”
Dainyl took the envelope. “When did this come in?”
“While you were inspecting the company, sir.”
“Thank you.” Dainyl headed back to his study. Anything from the Highest—or his assistant—he intended to read in private. After closing the door, he checked the Talent-seal— unbroken—and then opened the envelope. The message inside was brief: “Your presence is requested at the Hall of Justice at the eighth glass today.”
The seal was that of the Highest.
Dainyl left his study, heading back to the duty desk.
“I’ve already summoned the duty coach, sir,” Zorcylt said.
Less than half a glass later, Dainyl was striding up the wide golden marble steps of the Hall of Justice, the morning sun of harvest falling on his back.
Above the topmost step rose the goldenstone pillars of the receiving rotunda, pillars rising thirty yards to the base of the frieze that extended exactly eighty one yards from corner to corner. Above the frieze that depicted the aspects of justice conveyed by the Duarchy, the mansard roof of man sized tiles glittered a hard metallic green.
The colonel stepped into the receiving rotunda, where under a glass hence petitioners would assemble. Overhead, twenty seven yards above, arched a ceiling of pink marble, so precisely fitted that even an alector with full Talent could have detected no sign of a joint, or of mortar. Octagonal sections of polished gold and green marble, joined by the smaller diamond tiles, composed the floor of the receiving rotunda, each octagonal section of green marble inset with an eight-pointed star of golden marble.
Another set of goldenstone pillars separated the receiving rotunda from the main Hall, where the empty dais on the south wall held the podium of judgment. Dainyl’s boots glided over the marble in the Hall empty except for him, as he turned left and continued to a pillar on the south side, behind and to the left of the dais. There, he paused, then vanished to the sight of those without Talent before reaching up and turning the light-torch bracket. While that very minimal use of Talent to conceal himself would not have misled any of the higher alectors, it was most useful—and required— to keep things hidden in plain view from the landers and in-digens. As the seemingly solid stone moved to reveal an entry three yards high and one wide, only a Talented alector would have seen anything but a solid stone pillar. Beyond the entry was a set of steps lit by light-torches.
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