Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Shymal was telling the truth, but he was still uneasy, Mykel sensed. “It didn’t feel right to you, did it?”

  “Lots of stuff hasn’t felt right lately, sir.”

  “You didn’t want to say anything because you didn’t want to get into trouble.”

  “I didn’t see anything, sir. Just didn’t think Frejyl shoulda been away from the gate that long.”

  “Why not?”

  “He just shouldn’t. We’re supposed to be guarding the gates, not talking to dusters.”

  “Did you hear him talking to someone?”

  “No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I heard him talking, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he stopped talking.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. It was a while before he walked back. He said everything was settled, and there wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Mykel asked questions for another quarter glass, but Shymal’s story and reactions remained constant. Finally, he stood and walked to the door, opening it and calling for Captain Culeyt.

  Culeyt reappeared with the other ranker.

  “Shymal can go back to the barracks. He’s not to leave the post until I finish looking into this. I’ll need to speak to you after I talk to Frejyl here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Culeyt nodded.

  Mykel could sense a vague puzzlement from the captain, but he only smiled. “If you’d come in, Frejyl, and take a seat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mykel closed the study door and seated himself. “Did you hear or see anything strange last night?”

  “No…not really, sir.” The older ranker shifted his weight on the armless oak chair, so old that the wood was deep golden brown, and black where it had been nicked or scarred.

  “That’s odd.” Mykel smiled politely, waiting. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s always stuff out beyond the gates, sir. Always has been. Out a ways, maybe half a vingt or so is where the dusters get their sniffs. Dusters come by here all the time.”

  “Maybe strange isn’t the right word.” Mykel managed a pleasant smile. “Did you see or hear any dusters last night?”

  “There was one. He was louder than most. I told Shymal to watch the gates. I went out and told him to be quietlike.”

  Despite Frejyl’s calm outward appearance, Mykel could sense the fear and guilt. “Had he already stabbed Kersion? Or did you help with that, too?”

  “Sir?”

  “You were involved, Frejyl. The only question is how much.”

  “Sir, that is not true.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You were gone a quarter glass, long enough to drag Kersion’s body north and into the ditch where it wouldn’t be found immediately. The only questions are whether you were the one who stabbed Kersion and the duster and where you put the coins you took.”

  “Sir, I’d never stab another Cadmian. No, sir.”

  That particular sentence rang true, even to Mykel’s Talent.

  “What about the duster?”

  Frejyl shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “So what did you do? Let Kersion die and then take his coins?”

  “No, sir. He was almost gone when I got there. The duster, he tried to take the knife to me. I used my rifle to knock it out of his hand, and he started running…well, he was stumbling. I let him go. Kersion was dead by then, and his belt wallet had been cut away.”

  Mykel had noticed that. “Go on. What happened then?”

  “I went after the duster. He was lying on the side of the road. Figured I might as well take his wallet. Suppose I shoulda said something, but it wouldn’t have brought the boy back.”

  “Why did you drag Kersion out of sight?”

  Frejyl looked at the floor.

  Mykel waited.

  Finally, the ranker looked up. “No one was going to believe me. Not you. Not anyone. Figured I might as well keep the coins and let the dusters take all the blame.”

  Unfortunately, it all made sense, especially after the low level of discipline in the Iron Stem garrison, followed by Hersiod’s actions. Mykel suppressed a sigh.

  “You’ll face a court-martial for theft, Frejyl.” Mykel stood. “Culeyt!”

  The captain opened the door. “Sir?”

  “Cadmian Frejyl is being charged with theft. We could also charge him with lying, but I don’t see much point in that.”

  “He didn’t kill Kersion?”

  “No. The patroller was right. The duster did. Frejyl happened on the crime and made off with the coins. Find somewhere to lock him up. We’ll convene the court-martial first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mykel stood alone in the study after Culeyt marched Frejyl off.

  He supposed that such matters occurred at every post, now and again, but he was in charge, and it bothered him. He’d still implement the pairing rule, because what had happened to Kersion likely would have been prevented if there had been at least two rankers together. Beer and spirits were bad enough, but from what he’d heard and seen, the dreamdust from the dustcats was even worse, and now he had to deal with dusters in addition to the local women, the ancients, the sandwolves and other predators, and unhappy miners and workmen, not to mention hotheaded Reillies and Squawts. Two or three silvers for a sniff of the dust? That added up to a lot of golds, but for whom?

  He sat down at the desk, and with frequent references to the last set he had written, in Hyalt, he began to write out the court-martial orders. The first page was easy enough, and he set it aside to dry.

  There was a knock on the half-open door.

  “Sir?” offered Chyndylt, the senior squad leader for Fifteenth Company, who was the duty squad leader for the day. “There’s a letter for you. Came with the sandox coach. Driver said that you could pay later.” He extended the missive.

  “Thank you.” A letter? From whom? It certainly couldn’t be from Rachyla, much as he would have liked that. He doubted he would ever get a letter from her, but then, from the beginning, Rachyla had always confounded him, perhaps because he had never been able to read her, or understand truly the culture from which she had come. Yet…there was something there, something that he could not deny, as well as something she could neither deny nor acknowledge except in ways that no one else could see. She was held in a shimmersilk prison, and Mykel could only hope that a dagger of the ancients could prove sharp enough to free her.

  Mykel rose and took the envelope, then smiled as he saw the careful script that was his mother’s. He set it on the narrow desk, opening it only after Chyndylt had left.

  Dear Mykel,

  We were all so pleased to get your letter. You write so seldom. We had hoped you would be coming back to Elcien. That way you could visit sometime over the end-days. Sesalia had hoped you would be able to see little Mykela. She and Bortal hoped you would be pleased they named her after you.

  Things are getting harder here. The alectors are requiring longer hours in the mills and manufactories. They removed all landers from one place. No one knows why. There was enough work that no one was put out. They went to work in the steel mill.

  Viencet spent the summer working as a gardener’s assistant for Cymeryl. He’s a spice factor. His house is like a palace. It is in the hills to the northeast off the old mill road. Viencet could work in the steel mill, but he is looking for something else. Your father says he should work there until he can find another place, but Viencet says he won’t ever find another place. He’s not working now, and he avoids your father as much as he can.

  We got a good crop from the grapes and from the garden. We all look forward to seeing you before too long…

  Mykel folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his tunic. He couldn’t help but worry about Viencet. His younger brother had always wanted a “good” place without too much study, without too much work, and without too much risk. From what Mykel had seen, unless a man came from wealth, such positions didn’t exist.

  Outside the small headquar
ters building, the fall wind moaned.

  Mykel looked at the unfinished court-martial orders. Finally, he picked up the pen.

  36

  On Quinti morning, Dainyl stood on the stairs leading down to the main floor of the house. Someone was pounding on the front door—practically at sunrise, no less.

  “Dearest! Would you…I’m not exactly…” called Lystrana from the breakfast room.

  In his undertunic and trousers, Dainyl made his way to the door and opened it. Standing there in the fog and chill was Adya—one of Zelyert’s older assistants. Behind her waited Zelyert’s personal coach.

  “Marshal…the Highest regrets the intrusion, but he requests your immediate presence at the Hall of Justice. He said to tell you that it’s of the greatest importance.”

  “Come in out of the chill. Let me grab my tunic and gear, and I’ll be with you in a moment.” Dainyl closed the door behind Adya, then hurried to the breakfast room.

  “What is it?” Lystrana’s eyes narrowed.

  “The Highest wants me at the Hall of Justice as soon as I can get there. His carriage is waiting outside.” Dainyl shook his head. “I don’t like it. Not when you’re leaving for Dereka this morning. I’ll take one of your cases with me. If I can’t meet you at the Table, I’ll just take it to Dereka. Jonyst and his driver can get it to you.”

  “Maybe I can get to the Table while you’re still there.” Lystrana smiled nervously. “I’ll try. I might wait a bit.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” He embraced her, tightly, for a long moment, then stepped away and walked swiftly back to the foyer and up the steps to their bedchamber, where he finished dressing. When he came back down, wearing his flying jacket and carrying the heavier of Lystrana’s cases, Lystrana was standing in the foyer, talking to Adya.

  “…leaving for Dereka this morning…”

  “…so sorry…”

  Lystrana handed a large chunk of bread to Dainyl. “At least eat this on the way.”

  “I don’t know if the Highest…” Dainyl grinned.

  “He’ll have to deal with the crumbs,” suggested Adya.

  After giving Lystrana a last kiss, with the bread in one hand, the case in the other, Dainyl followed Adya out to the carriage. With the case and two alectors, the carriage was cramped, but better than most hacks.

  “Do you know what this is all about?”

  “No, sir. All I know is that he had a recorder with him, a woman. I don’t know her.”

  Either Sulerya or Delari, then. If either were in Elcien, matters in Blackstear or Lysia were not good. Dainyl frowned. The odds were that the recorder was Delari, since Sulerya had support from Eighth Company and close to a battalion of Cadmians. Had the ancients or the Reillies overrun Blackstear? Zelyert wanted to use Myrmidons, and quickly, or he wouldn’t have roused Dainyl out so early.

  Once the carriage pulled up to the Hall of Justice, Dainyl got out and lugged the case up the stone steps, across the receiving hall, and back down the inside staircase to the lower level. Adya stayed with him.

  The High Alector of Justice had obviously sensed Dainyl arriving and stood in the doorway to his private study. “What’s the case for, Marshal? Weapons, by chance?”

  Dainyl shook his head. “Gear for the Regional Alector of Dereka.”

  “That may have to wait.” Appearing as grim as Dainyl had ever seen him, Zelyert stepped back to let Dainyl enter the study, then closed the door. Beside the small conference table stood a tall and angular woman in the green of a recorder. Deep circles ringed her eyes, and her entire being radiated exhaustion.

  “Delari.” Dainyl inclined his head.

  “I see that you are now marshal. The High Alector did not tell me that.”

  Zelyert gestured to the chairs around the table. “We might as well sit. Delari has had some exhausting times.” He waited until everyone was seated. “If you’d tell the marshal what you told me.”

  “We’ve lost use of the Table at Blackstear. We’ve lost the entire building. Forces of Myrmidons from Ifryn came through the long translation tubes, and they kept coming. They had lightcutters, and they overwhelmed the guards.”

  “They can use the Table there as an entry to any Table,” Zelyert pointed out. “Every Table chamber could be a battlefield.”

  As if most of the chambers weren’t already, reflected Dainyl. “When…how?”

  “Yesterday,” replied Delari. “I managed to use my Talent to conceal the hidden chamber. They’ve already started fortifying the Table building, using lightcutters to cut stone to seal windows. Early this morning, while they were recovering, I slipped out with Talent cover and got to the Table. I had to use the Table to kill three of them before I could translate here.”

  “How many Myrmidons are there?” asked Dainyl.

  “No more than twenty, right now. From what I overheard, they lost forty to take Blackstear.”

  “If you act quickly, before they get reinforcements,” suggested Zelyert, “you can stop them. I know you don’t want to move Myrmidons out of Elcien, Marshal, but I don’t see that we have any choice.”

  Dainyl didn’t either. “What sort of weapons did they have besides lightcutters?”

  “Sabres. Not all of the lightcutters worked,” replied Delari. “Long translations are hard on the crystals.”

  Dainyl turned to Zelyert. “How many Myrmidons are there, or were there, on Ifryn?”

  “There were twelve companies, eight with pteridons.”

  “Were the foot companies the same size as the flying companies?”

  “They’re larger—sixty rankers.”

  “It sounds like one entire foot company, no more than two. They knew which Table to target and trained for it.” Dainyl turned back to Delari. “What was the weather like?”

  “It was cloudy and cold, but I don’t think it was snowing.”

  “Is the Table still activated?”

  “Yes.”

  Zelyert frowned.

  “Do you know if they had any Table engineers with them?”

  “I don’t think so. They didn’t seem to know anything about the Tables, except as transport.”

  Dainyl turned to Zelyert. “Do you have any lightcutters here? I’d sent some under seal.”

  “They’re in the storeroom.”

  “Good. I’ll need three.”

  Delari’s eyes widened.

  So did Zelyert’s. “I need a marshal, not a missing commander.”

  “You need to isolate the Ifryn Myrmidons in Blackstear before anything gets worse. If I can do that, then you can handle them at leisure—or even let them all freeze. Delari and Chastyl will be able to tell if I’m successful.”

  “And if you’re not?” asked Zelyert pointedly.

  “Then all the Myrmidons in the west won’t be enough to stop them,” replied Dainyl.

  “Do you know Table mechanics?” asked Delari.

  “Enough to inactivate the Table,” temporized Dainyl, standing to forestall more questions. “The lightcutters?” He didn’t like revealing skills the High Alector didn’t know he possessed, especially as neither Duarch remained Talent-augmented, but stopping the consternation and disaster angry Myrmidons from Ifryn could create was more important. The more authority he had, the more he had to reveal about himself, and the less he could keep to himself.

  “How—?” began Delari.

  “We’ll worry about that once we get them isolated.” Dainyl looked to Zelyert. “Highest, if you could have someone bring the lightcutters to the Table chamber, please?” He’d tacked on the “please” because he could sense Zelyert’s growing irritation. The High Alector had no business being irritated, but there was no point in not trying to mollify him.

  “I will.” Zelyert left the study first. He was still angry.

  Dainyl picked up the case.

  “Marshal…do you know what you’re doing?” asked Delari quietly. “You could get stranded in Blackstear, and with the Ifryn Myrmidons as angry as they are, even y
ou…”

  “Unfortunately, I do know. Sulerya taught me, and you’re the only recorder I’d tell that to.” He began to walk toward the Table chamber.

  “I never thought it would be like this,” Delari said quietly.

  Neither had Dainyl, for all that he had learned in the past two years. They walked without saying more to the Table chamber, where Delari opened both doors for Dainyl. Lystrana had not arrived, and that was probably for the best.

  Chastyl glanced from Delari to Dainyl, and then to the case. His eyebrows rose. He looked even more exhausted than did Delari.

  “That’s for the new RA in Dereka,” Dainyl explained.

  “I hadn’t heard…”

  “My wife. She’ll be here later to translate there.”

  “Do you think…?” began Chastyl. “With Blackstear…?”

  “Better now than later,” replied Dainyl. “That’s why it’s important to get Lystrana to Dereka. It’s been without a regional alector for too long. If I get back in time, I’ll go with her and then translate back.”

  Another expression of puzzlement crossed Chastyl’s face.

  “I have a task in Blackstear. You and Delari will need to monitor the Tables.”

  The door to the Table chamber opened again. The High Alector stepped up to Dainyl and handed him the lightcutters—in their holsters.

  Dainyl fastened one holster to his belt on each side, and slipped the third inside his tunic. “One way or another, this will be quick.” He stepped onto the Table.

  As he did, a young alector in a blue tunic appeared on the mirrored surface beside Dainyl, his eyes wide. Dainyl stepped around the youth and concentrated on the dark depths beneath the Table, sliding downward and…

  …into the chill purple duskiness. He focused all his attention on the black locator, by far the hardest to discern, and extended a Talent link.

  Around him flashed lines of pinkish purple, and in the distance—except it was a distance with no direction—he sensed a vague amber-green force, links of a type. The translation tube shivered, once and then once more, as if the ancients were forging those links with a massive Talent hammer.