Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Copper?” Dainyl didn’t like that at all. Copper tended to be used more in crystal-based weapons—such as Myrmidon sidearms. “That makes the kind of sense I don’t like.”

  “Weapons and road-building equipment?”

  Dainyl nodded.

  “That only confirms what you already know about him.”

  “All too true.” He paused. “Speaking about what I already know and can’t bring to light, I’m going to go to Alustre tomorrow. I can’t put that off any longer.”

  “I worry about that, too.”

  “Try not to. If not for yourself, for the little one.” Dainyl pulled on his robe and sat on the corner of the bed, facing her. Neither had lit the lamps, but with alectors’ night vision, no lamps were necessary.

  “Are you certain that you want Alcyna as submarshal here in Elcien?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. What else can I do? Her official record is outstanding. She sent Seventh Company to attack me and Fifth Company in Hyalt, but those orders were never put in writing, and the officers who received them are dead. Even if there were some documentary proof, she’d claim that all she knew was that the regional alector was under attack.”

  “In your command area,” Lystrana pointed out.

  “She’d already sent a protest about my actions, but she was clever enough to say that Shastylt sent me without justification, and Shastylt’s dead.”

  “You really want to deal with her on a daily basis?”

  “I’d rather do that here, than have her keep working with Brekylt in Alustre. By removing her…”

  “But you’ll have to promote Noryan, and he’s from Ifryn.”

  “He’s a bull, and strong-willed, but he’s not so devious. He’ll do what Brekylt tells him, but what else can I do?”

  “You can hope she’ll attack you, or Brekylt will.”

  “You have great confidence in my shields, dearest.”

  “I do, but don’t let your guard down, especially when they’re not around.”

  Dainyl laughed, then eased up beside her.

  4

  An alector who wishes to be a responsible administrator must always keep in mind the difference between expectations based on facts and careful analysis, and expectations based upon a desired outcome.

  All beings capable of some degree of thought speculate upon outcomes—those that are most probable, those that are least probable, those that are most desired, and those that are least desired. A truly intelligent individual first gathers all facts and all manner of knowledge that may affect an outcome, even such knowledge of the sort that cannot be quantified in numerical or objective terms. Then the intelligent alector assesses that knowledge and constructs a probabilistic analysis of the possible outcomes, weighing all the factors on as objective a basis as possible.

  Subjective factors can and must be analyzed objectively, and this is one area where even the most rational of alectors can mislead himself. Just because an alector does not allow excessive emotion to affect his choices and decisions, that does not mean that steers or less perceptive alectors will not be affected by emotional factors. In addition, positive influences that cannot be quantified affect outcomes, such as a desire for excellence.

  Even when both objective and subjective components are factored into the assessment of an outcome, however, an alector who must make a decision may be influenced by the desire to see a particular outcome. Usually, this outcome-influence results in the decision-maker weighing the component factors in such a fashion as to produce a prediction of the desired outcome. If the alector in question dislikes an outcome that will likely occur if subjective factors are weighted correctly, then the subjective factors will be dismissed or denigrated because they cannot be accurately quantified.

  In similar fashion, when quantifiable factors truly outweigh the subjective factors, the alector who favors a subjective-influenced outcome will tend to minimize the impacts of the quantifiable factors, often on the basis that beliefs or feelings have a stronger impact than can be accurately assessed.

  In the end, the judicious alector must work to assure that his expectations do not influence his analysis, but that accurate analysis and study form the basis for his expectations.

  Views of the Highest

  Illustra

  W.T. 1513

  5

  Quattri morning found Mykel in what would be the quarters of the senior visiting Cadmian officer in the new compound. For now, he was that officer. Officially, Captain Cismyr, the commanding officer of the First Hyalt Company, was the commander of the compound.

  Mykel’s quarters were on the upper level of the main barracks, but at the rear. All the officers’ quarters were accessed by an outside stairway. The space was empty, except for a bunk and a thin pallet mattress. The companies were scheduled to move from the old garrison to the new compound on Sexdi—if all went well, and the weather continued dry. Mykel would have liked to have moved everyone sooner, but the interior of the stables needed work, and he really wanted more of the courtyard paved.

  Mykel sat on the bunk, using a square of wood balanced on his knees as a writing desk, trying to complete the last few lines of his report to Colonel Herolt. From through the open window, he could hear the sounds of clay being tamped in place, and rock chunks, gravel, and finally sand, as a base for the redstone paving for the courtyard. Farther away was the rhythmic droning of a saw, cutting planks—or timbers for the roofing of the headquarters building, the last structure in the compound to be completed. He’d made arrangements with craftmaster Poeldyn for the stone paving of a narrow road from the compound to the high road, although most of that work beyond the area immediately outside the south gates would have to wait until the stone work in the compound was completed.

  Finally, Mykel put aside his makeshift desk and the completed report and stood. He still had to make a copy for his personal files, but the harder work of drafting a report that was complete—without disclosing matters that would create trouble for himself and without revealing that there were such omissions—was done. He had another day to make the copies he needed before the biweekly sandoxen coach made its next trip through Hyalt.

  He walked to the half-open window and looked out. The barest breath of air wafted past him. For an early morning late in harvest, it was already hot. Styndal was directing a windlass crew and a crane in placing the last of the roof beams on the headquarters building. Mykel nodded. He had to admit that the Hyaltan crafters had done good work, better than he’d seen in a few places. But then, he reflected, Hyalt was a town that had come on hard times, and the workers were eager for work—and good pay.

  His eyes lifted above the walls to the west, but he could not make out the regional alector’s complex from the new compound, not that there was much to see, according to Rhystan. Submarshal Dainyl’s pteridons had flattened and burned the one outbuilding and used some sort of fire to gut the interior of the tunnels and chambers cut into the rock of the cliff.

  Mykel took a deep breath and stretched, before heading for the door and down to the half-paved courtyard.

  Troral, the head of the council in Hyalt, as well as the largest cloth factor in the area, was due to arrive any moment to discuss the delivery of blankets and other needs for the compound. After that, Mykel needed to observe a drill involving both Hyaltan companies. In a sense, the exercise was a formality. Both companies had performed well in the actions in Hyalt and Tempre, although Second Company had seen more action in Tempre than First Company had in Hyalt.

  Mykel had no more than stepped away from the barracks when Captain Cismyr appeared and rode toward him. “Good morning, Majer. We stand ready for the exercise and evaluation.”

  “I’d guess about half a glass, Captain. Don’t head out to the exercise area until then.” Mykel offered a wry smile. “I have to meet with Troral first—about some supplies for you and your men, like blankets for the winter. Is there anything else you need beside what we went over yesterday?”

  “
No, sir. Matorak couldn’t think of anything, either.”

  “Good. At least, I hope that’s good.” Mykel smiled. “If it’s likely to be much longer than half a glass, I’ll send a messenger. It’s too hot for men and mounts to wait in the sun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cismyr turned and rode back toward the main gates. From what Mykel could sense, First Company had drawn up in the shade of the outside west walls.

  Mykel walked toward the headquarters building, staying well back, but watching as Styndal’s crafters fastened the last of the roof beams in place.

  The telltale creaking alerted Mykel, and he turned and waited as a cart, pulled by a single horse, eased through the open main gates on the south side of the compound. Troral drove the cart, which held a load piled high and covered by tarps carefully fastened in place—blankets, no doubt. The factor eased the cart to a halt short of the front of the new barracks.

  “Good morning, Troral,” Mykel called cheerfully as the factor climbed off his cart.

  Troral finished tethering the leads to a stone post not intended for that purpose and walked toward Mykel. He stopped a good yard away. “Good morning, Majer.” Although the factor looked up at the taller lander, Troral’s eyes did not quite meet Mykel’s.

  “I see you brought the blankets.”

  “You did say you’d be wanting them once the barracks were done, and I heard that you’d be moving here in the next few days. That’d be telling me the barracks were done, or near enough.”

  Mykel caught, not with his eyes, but with his senses, feelings of absolute fear that even permeated the yellowish brown aura of the mastercrafter. Was it still his reputation as a dagger of the ancients? “Near enough. I’ll write out the authorization. You’ll have to draw the golds against the Cadmian letter of credit.”

  “I figured as much, what with you being in Tempre so long. True that you had to lay waste to the place?”

  Mykel laughed gently. “Not even close. We did kill a number of rebels, but there was only a little damage to one building. I doubt that most people even lost a copper or more than a little sleep.”

  “Said you wiped out companies and companies of the regional alectors’ mounted rifles.” Troral’s tone was dogged.

  “We did wipe out three companies, but that fight took place outside Tempre.”

  “I figured you weren’t the type to do that—hurt folks not involved, I mean—but people were saying…”

  “We didn’t have much choice. They attacked us in the middle of the night.” That was a slight exaggeration. It had been two glasses before dawn, but Mykel didn’t want to get into details. “How have things been here?”

  Troral shook his head. “Weren’t for you Cadmians, times’d be terrible. After what those rebels did…be months, seasons maybe, before anyone will be able to sell anything to the regional alector again. Terrible mess out there.”

  Mykel wondered if the Duarches would even bother to replace the regional alector, and if so, when. “I can see that will be a problem.” He smiled politely. “I do have a list of other goods that we’ll be needing for the compound.”

  Troral did not look pleased, merely less unhappy. That didn’t surprise Mykel. In more than two seasons of working with the factor, he’d never seen more than a momentary smile.

  Mykel handed Troral the list. “If you could give me a bid in the next few days…”

  “That I can do, Majer. That I can.” Troral folded the paper and tucked it away. “Now where do you want the blankets?”

  “In the barracks here, in the front bay for now.” For all the factor’s outward cheerfulness, Mykel could still sense the man’s fear, and it was clearly a fear of Mykel. Yet Mykel had never ever threatened anyone in Hyalt, even indirectly.

  Mykel had the feeling the day was going to be very long.

  6

  Dainyl had requested that Wyalt pick him up at the house with the duty coach at a glass before dawn. While he hated losing that much sleep, or causing the duty driver to do so, the sun rose a good four glasses earlier in Alustre, and leaving even as early as he planned would put him in Alustre in very late midmorning. He still disliked using the duty coach to take him to and from his house, but at such early hours, since he’d neglected to make advance arrangements with his usual transport, the hacker Barodyn, his choices were to use the duty coach or to walk.

  When Dainyl stepped out through the gates of his front courtyard on Quattri morning, he wore the traveling uniform of a Myrmidon officer—a blue flying jacket over a shimmercloth tunic of brilliant blue, both above dark gray trousers, with a heavy dark gray belt that held his lightcutter sidearm. On his collar were the single green-edged gold stars of a marshal. Inside his uniform tunic were two envelopes—one containing Alcyna’s promotion to submarshal in Elcien, and the second containing Majer Noryan’s appointment and promotion to submarshal in Alustre.

  Wyalt was waiting. “Good morning, Marshal. The Hall of Justice, sir?”

  “There’s nowhere else in Elcien I’d be headed this early.” Dainyl climbed into the coach.

  Wyalt swung the coach back around a side street and then turned west on the boulevard, the main thoroughfare that ran down the middle of the isle from the bridge in the east to the gates at the Myrmidon compound at the west end of the isle. As they passed the public gardens of the Duarch, Dainyl glanced out, but in the predawn darkness only the outlines of the elaborate topiary were visible, and the life-sized pteridon looked to be next to the long hedge sculpted into the likeness of two sandoxen and a set of transport coaches, when in fact they were separated by a good fifty yards. Beyond the gardens were the Palace of the Duarch on the south side of the boulevard and the Hall of Justice on the north. The Hall’s golden eternastone glowed to Dainyl’s Talent, even in the darkness.

  Wyalt brought the coach to a smooth stop at the base of the wide golden marble steps of the Hall of Justice.

  After emerging from the coach, and nodding to the driver, Dainyl hurried up the steps and through the goldenstone pillars that marked the outer rim of the receiving rotunda. From there he crossed the green and gold marble floor of the rotunda, the sound of his boots lost in the stillness before dawn. At a pillar beyond the dais where, later in the day, petitioners would assemble, he cloaked himself in a Talent-illusion, out of habit, since no one was nearby. Then he turned the light-torch bracket, and the solid stone shifted to one side, revealing an entry and a set of steps leading downward and lit by light-torches. He closed the entry behind himself and made his way down the steps, turning right at the bottom to follow a stone-walled corridor.

  Before he reached the doorway to the Table chamber on the north side, a sleepy-eyed young alector appeared.

  “Oh…Marshal…I had not heard you would be here so early. Let me tell the guards.”

  “Guards?”

  “Yes, sir. We now have our own guards here. We’ve been getting too many wild translations, and more than a few renegades from Ifryn. Oh…when do you expect to return?”

  “If all goes well, later today.”

  The aide to the High Alector stepped forward and released the hidden Talent lock, then stepped into the foyer, lit by a single light-torch. Before opening the second door, he called out, “It’s Cartalyn.” After speaking, he released the Talent lock on the second door and stepped into the Table chamber.

  Dainyl followed him, raising his Talent shields.

  The Table chamber walls were of white marble, the floor green. Two sets of double light-torches set five yards apart in bronze brackets on the side walls provided the sole illumination to the underground chamber. Unlike other Table chambers, there were no furnishings at all. The Table itself looked like any other Table—a square polished stone pedestal in the center of the room that extended a yard above the stone floor. The stone appeared black on the side, but the top surface was mirrorlike silver. Each side of the tablelike pedestal was three yards. The other aspect of the Table, perceived only through Talent, was the purple g
low that emanated from it.

  Two guards in dark purple sat on stools beside the doorway, facing the Table. Each carried a lightcutter sidearm. Dainyl recognized one of them, a former Myrmidon who had served fifty years before requesting a stipend.

  “Marshal, sir…congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Tregaryt. Have you had any problems on this watch?”

  “No, sir. Had a wild translation yesterday. Vrityst had to cut down a fellow with a Myrmidon guard blade on Duadi.”

  Dainyl shook his head. “I’ll be back later today. I’d appreciate your being a bit careful.” Never before in the history of Acorus had guards been stationed—or necessary—inside a Table chamber. Even before now, Dainyl had not taken Table travel casually, not when some of the Recorders of Deeds had backed Brekylt and tried to create fatal “accidents” for Dainyl when he had been translating. Now he also had to worry about emerging from a translation and being “accidentally” shot if he did not maintain Talent shields every moment.

  With a smile at the guards, Dainyl stepped up onto the Table, immediately concentrating through his Talent on the darkness beneath and within the Table. He dropped through the silvered surface and into…

  …the intense chill of purplish blackness that permeated every span of his body, despite his uniform and flying jacket. Although he saw, not with his eyes, but his Talent, he extended his senses toward the dark gray locator, bordered in purple, that identified Alustre. He ignored the stronger and closer locators of Tempre, bright blue, and the crimson-gold of Dereka, instead pressing himself toward the more distant wedge of dark gray.

  Other locators swirled by—wedges of amber, brilliant yellow, green, gray…Well beyond stretched a distant purple-black wedge—the long translation tube back to Ifryn, the tube that all too many Ifrits were bribing and forcing their way into, knowing that Ifryn was dying and that there was too little time remaining.