Dainyl hadn’t even thought about entertaining—or that it might be part of the position of High Alector. But then, who had paid for the time when Brekylt had hosted him and Alcyna?
“As you will see, sir, High Alector Zelyert drew only a few hundred golds for personal use, but his predecessor drew a great deal more. That was many years ago, of course.”
“Perhaps you should go over the expenditures for this year.”
“Yes, sir. There are only a few expenditures every year. The first use of funds did not occur until the third of Duem, and that was a transfer of two hundred golds to the High Alector personally, with the note that it represented coming travel and entertainment expenses.”
“Are there any expenditures or transfers of funds to other High Alectors?”
Luftyne frowned, fleetingly, before she replied. “There was a transfer of two thousand golds to the High Alector of Engineering on the thirty-third of Duem. That was for engineering services and equipment.” Luftyne laid the ledger flat and pointed to the entry.
Dainyl scanned the page, noting that the next entry on the fifteenth of Quattrem was a transfer of one thousand golds to the Marshal of Myrmidons’ account for “expenses relating to Dramur.” Other entries of smaller amounts ranged from ten golds for a matched pair of bays for the High Alector’s coach to thirty golds for shimmersilk for ceremonial garments. In mid-Octem, Zelyert had also transferred five hundred golds from the discretionary account to the Hall of Justice operating account for paying and equipping the new Table guards.
Finally, Dainyl looked up from the ledger. “I’ll need to study this in greater detail, but that will do for now. Thank you.” He still needed to think out what he was going to say when he met with Alseryl later in the day.
“Whatever the Highest requires.” The accounting chief rose, bowed, and backed out of the private study.
Before Dainyl had a chance to puzzle through the implications of what the discretionary ledger had revealed or to think about how best to deal with Alseryl, Chastyl knocked.
“Come in.” Dainyl did not stand.
“You wanted me, sir.”
“Yes. You’d asked about the Blackstear Table. The Myrmidons can ferry five guards up tomorrow morning. The marshal will supply two Myrmidon trainees, but that means you’ll need to designate three other guards to go to Blackstear. They’ll need to be at Myrmidon headquarters a half glass before dawn, dressed in heavy-weather gear. It’s a long flight and a very cold one.”
Chastyl swallowed. “Sir…we’re stretched thin here.”
“I’m sure you are, but there are very few times that the marshal will be able to do this.” Dainyl smiled. “I’m certain that you can work this out.”
“Yes, sir.” The recorder bowed. “How long will they be there? Would both alectors and alrectresses be acceptable?”
“They could be there for the rest of winter, and for Triem and possibly Quattrem. If they’re qualified, I’m sure Delari would not have any problems.”
“There will be three guards at Myrmidon headquarters, sir.”
As Chastyl departed, Dainyl could sense both frustration and relief. He closed his private study door. He needed some time to think.
73
While Mykel had hoped to ride with one of the Third Battalion companies on Sexdi or Septi, the ironworks disaster precluded his even considering going on a patrol until Octdi. He had ridden through Iron Stem a number of times, and he had dispatched his letter to Rachyla through the wool factor, although whether she would receive it and how she—or Amaryk—would take it he could not predict. He had cut back on patrols to allow greater rest for the men, and particularly for their mounts, in the event that Croyalt’s information proved to be accurate. He could not dispense with them entirely, not when the sandwolves seemed ever more daring.
A half glass after morning muster, under a clear sky with a penetrating chill wind blowing out of the northeast, Mykel was riding across the garrison courtyard toward Undercaptain Dyarth and Thirteenth Company. His arm was still in the sling, and bound, under his winter riding jacket, not because of the arm itself, but to reduce pressure on the injured shoulder.
“Sir?” Dyarth turned in the saddle.
“I’ll be accompanying you today, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mykel waited, his roan slightly back of the undercaptain’s chestnut, while Dyarth received the reports from his squad leaders. He eased his mount beside the chestnut when Thirteenth Company began to ride toward the gates.
Once on the high road, Mykel turned his mount northward. His eyes lingered on the green tower just to the west. Not for the first time, he wondered why the windowless towers had even been built, but that mystery was one that could wait.
They had traveled half a vingt north on the high road before the undercaptain spoke. “Sir…do you plan any changes to the patrol route or operations?”
“No, Undercaptain. I’m just here to observe.” Mykel wasn’t all that sure he’d be much good at more than that, but he’d spent far less time with Thirteenth Company than some of the others. Besides, he’d wanted to get another look at the area to the northeast of Iron Stem, the area patrolled by the company—partly in response to inholder complaints about sandwolves.
“Do you think that we’ll be seeing more and more of the sandwolves?”
“I think it’s likely, but I can’t tell you why.” Mykel couldn’t, not without revealing far more than he felt safe doing. The increased sandwolf attacks were a way for the soarers to put pressure on the alectors, as had been the attack—and it could have been nothing less—upon the ironworks.
“Right north of town, once you get past the hovels, there’s nothing here except dry grasslands.” Dyarth gestured at the sparse grasslands stretching away on both sides of the high road. There were but few structures anywhere, and most looked to be either abandoned or storage huts of some sort. “You can ride vingts and not see anyone or a proper house.”
“It looks desolate, all right.” Mykel’s Talent told him that there was more life than met the eye. “But there has to be more than we see, or the holders wouldn’t be here, and the sandwolves wouldn’t have enough to eat.”
“Can’t be too much, sir, or they wouldn’t be raiding the inholders.”
“I don’t know about that. The outholders seem to be a pretty tough group. Maybe the sandwolves find the pickings easier close to town.”
Dyarth frowned, then replied, “That could be, and they want us to take care of the problem so that they don’t have to work as hard as the outholders.”
The patrol followed the high road four vingts north before turning eastward on one of the holder access lanes, although it was almost a true road, wide enough for two mounts comfortably abreast, unlike many, which were barely able to handle a single mount or a narrow cart.
To Mykel, the farther north and east they rode, away from the high road, the more the air smelled and tasted metallic, as if a cold and rusty sabre had been laid on his tongue and he’d inhaled deeply.
The patrol had covered another two vingts, and the winter sun was well clear of the Aerlal Plateau, whose cliffs ran like a wall across the eastern horizon, when Mykel began to sense a faint violet-gray—the aura of sandwolves—as well as something else, a blackish gray that he had not sensed before. His best judgment was that the sandwolves and the other creatures were at least half a vingt ahead, probably in the vale to the northeast of the lane that followed the ridgelines of the hills.
“There’s something ahead,” Mykel said quietly. “I’d suggest ordering ‘ready rifles.’”
“Yes, sir.” Dyarth turned in the saddle. “Company! Ready rifles!”
“Ready rifles!” echoed the squad leaders.
The blackish gray aura grew stronger, but not that of the sandwolves, as Thirteenth Company followed the holders’ road.
Then, as the road edged more to the north and to the side of the ridge, Mykel caught a glimpse of animals below, c
reatures he’d never seen before.
“We’ll need to halt at the curve in the lane ahead,” he told Dyarth. “That will give us the best vantage and the high ground.”
“Ah…”
“For whatever those are, and the sandwolves that are stalking them,” replied Mykel, still watching the black-coated animals a good two hundred yards downslope.
“Company! Halt!”
The creatures did not startle, although several glanced up the slope toward the Cadmian force as the troopers reined up.
A pair of males edged toward each other. Mykel assumed they were males from the curled black horns that glittered cruelly on the front edges, as if they had been sharpened like a sabre. Black wool of some sort covered their two-yard-long bodies, and wide and thick shoulders added to their massive and menacing aura. Abruptly the two broke off whatever dispute or dominance conflict that they had barely begun and turned.
Mykel could sense the gray-violet aura of at least one sandwolf even before the creature appeared out of the brush to the east of the small flock. Its long crystal fangs were evident from where Mykel watched as it broke into a run toward one of the smaller black-coated creatures trailing the others.
A large male charged from the flock toward the sandwolf. Mykel didn’t think that the smaller creature—although it wasn’t that much less in size and perhaps even closer in weight—had much chance against the sandwolf and its fangs. Yet, a moment before the two met, the black male lowered his shoulders and horns, and then twisted his head.
The sandwolf barely let out a howl as it was lifted off the ground and then flung aside, partly disemboweled and dead before it could have realized what had happened.
Mykel swallowed. He could sense more sandwolves, not all that far to the east. He and the company might well seem an easier target than the giant horned killer sheep. “Stand by to fire! Sandwolves! To the south.”
“Staggered line abreast! Stand by to fire!” echoed Dyarth.
Mykel wasn’t certain how they had managed it, but less than a hundred yards downslope and to the south of the company appeared a pack of the sandwolves. They were moving at full speed, and that was faster than a galloping horse.
“Fire at will!” snapped Dyarth.
Behind the sandwolves, Mykel could sense one of the sanders, but what could he do? Could he will the bullets of another Cadmian to a target?
“Over there!” he called to the ranker slightly behind him. “The sander, the small figure. Fire at it.”
“Yes, sir!”
As the man fired, Mykel concentrated on him, his rifle, and the bullet in the chamber. The shot went wide, and Mykel concentrated once more as the ranker fired. All the shots in the magazine missed, and Mykel could feel that it had taken some effort from him.
As the Cadmian reloaded, Mykel decided to concentrate on the bullet alone.
The third shot struck the sander in the shoulder, twisting it down. Mykel could feel the loss of lifeforce and death. Immediately the creature began to disintegrate. Several of the sandwolves had gone down as well, but with the death of the sander, the pack broke and turned.
In moments, the Cadmians were once more alone on the herder’s road. Below them, the black creatures grazed, as if nothing had happened.
“That was strange,” Dyarth said, reining up beside Mykel. After a moment, he went on. “Is there any reason not to continue the patrol, sir?”
“I think continuing the patrol would be a good idea, Undercaptain. I don’t think we’ll see any more sandwolves very soon, but you never know.”
“Yes, sir.” The undercaptain turned in the saddle. “Company! Double column! Forward!”
Mykel and Thirteenth Company only rode another vingt, down through a shallow vale and up onto another ridgeline, before Mykel saw five riders headed toward them. As they drew closer, he recognized the first rider—Outholder Croyalt.
“Have the company halt.”
“Company! Halt!”
Mykel rode forward to greet the outholder, reining up yards short of the older man.
“I heard rifles, Majer.”
“We ran across some sandwolves—and some other creatures,” Mykel replied. “Black and wooly, and the males have sharp curled horns.”
“The nightsheep.” Croyalt nodded.
“You call those sheep?”
“They have a coat—the wool’s more like armor. I’d wager it would make a sturdy cloth.” The outholder laughed. “It won’t happen in my lifetime, though. You can’t domesticate them, and the flesh is poisonous to nearly any animal. Nightsheep can eat anything that’s green, but they seem to prefer the quarasote.”
Mykel had never heard of quarasote. “What’s that?”
“It’s a spiny bush that grows in the colder and drier places, mostly near the base of the plateau, but there’s some almost everywhere. The older branches will cut through leather, and just about anything else. The scrats eat the seeds, but not much else besides nightsheep will browse on the shoots. Even they prefer the new growth. There’s not much quarasote here. That’s why we usually don’t see them here.” Croyalt smiled. “You’re fortunate. Not many outsiders do.”
“They’re dangerous. I saw one gut a sandwolf.”
“That’s why we leave them alone. They don’t attack unless provoked.”
“Where did they come from?”
“They’ve always been around, but they usually stick close to the plateau. This is as far west as I’ve seen them.” The outholder studied Mykel, seemingly taking in his still-injured arm. “You’re riding patrols with the Reillies and Squawts likely to come after you in two days?”
“All the more reason to do so, while we can. There were reports of more attacks on the flocks of the inholders.”
Croyalt snorted. “They always want someone else to do the hard work of protecting them. They leave the town, and most of them are helpless.”
Mykel sensed that the holder’s contempt was far stronger than his words. “Some people are like that.”
“So they are, Majer.” Croyalt nodded briskly. “We need to be moving, and I imagine you do as well. Good day.” The holder eased his mount off the lane, as did the four behind him, three men, and a blond woman who looked like Croyalt, except that she reminded Mykel of a soarer as well, although she was almost as tall as Croyalt and Mykel could sense no overt Talent in her. Still, her aura was so dark it might as well have been black, and there were definite streaks of green in it.
Once Thirteenth Company was riding again, more to the southeast, Mykel could make out a holding, with a large house and outbuildings, well to the east. Ahead was a lane leading off the road they were taking that presumably led to the holding. Mykel wondered if it was Croyalt’s, or if the outholder had been visiting someone. Sooner or later, he’d find out, he supposed.
In the meantime, he needed to see if he could determine a better way to use his Talent on the bullets and weapons of his men—or at least those close to him. He’d fired a rifle one-handed a few times, but that wasn’t a good plan for an officer who was charged with commanding a battalion—especially one who might be facing forces twice his in number before long.
The air still had a metallic feel, and the wind was stronger—and colder.
74
Dainyl was in the coach at a quarter past the first glass of the afternoon, heading toward the Palace for his meeting with the High Alector of Transport. Once more, he stepped out on the lower level, but this time he headed to the northwest corner of the Palace.
As he entered the paneled outer study, Dainyl could see immediately that Alseryl’s spaces were effectively the mirror image of Chembryt’s.
The alector assistant seated behind the small desk jumped to his feet. “Highest, High Alector Alseryl is expecting you.” He took two steps to the door and rapped. “High Alector Dainyl.” After a moment, he opened the door, bowing and stepping back.
“Thank you.” Dainyl maintained full shields when he stepped into the study.
>
The assistant closed the door as Dainyl crossed the green and gold marble floor.
Alseryl’s study was also paneled in golden oak, with crimson-trimmed deep blue hangings framing the single window, except the window was on the left. The oblong table desk held four neat stacks of papers. An oak armchair was set at each corner of the inner side of the table desk, while the third was behind the desk, centered on the painting of the Palace—one that showed the Palace from the south, clearly in full summer. There were no bookcases.
Alseryl stood directly behind the table desk, using it as a barrier between him and Dainyl. His welcoming nod was less than perfunctory.
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” offered Dainyl.
“I could do no less.” Alseryl seated himself.
Dainyl took the chair closest to the window, moving it slightly so that Alseryl would also be looking toward the window when he faced Dainyl.
“I am normally most politic, Dainyl. You might call it indirect, but among High Alectors, indirection will usually suffice. With you, I cannot be certain of that, not with your…background. So I will be less indirect, much as that pains me.” Alseryl smiled.
Dainyl disliked the expression, because it conveyed trust, honesty, and concern, and behind the smile were none of those.
“First, I can see that your Talent carries a tinge of green, and that is not normally acceptable for an alector, much less a High Alector, let alone the High Alector of Justice. I can understand the regrettable nature of the injury, and the service performed, but green is green, especially in these times.”
“True enough,” countered Dainyl, “but both Duarches are aware of the injury and its causes, and the green that resulted has not greatly troubled either.”
Those words created a momentary, if hidden consternation, but Alseryl smiled quickly. “I am glad to hear that. As you may know, High Alector Zelyert had great concerns about the future of Acorus, and about the need for a strong framework to ensure that we do not become a mere tool of the Archon or a dumping ground for those who have fallen out of favor in Illustra. You have already demonstrated that you are cut from the same shimmersilk as Zelyert in the matter of restricting long translations by those who would weaken Acorus and shorten the years of useful lifeforce.” Alseryl smiled once more, this time condescendingly.
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