Cadmian's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Alcyna remained standing, looking at Dainyl, then pressing a Talent-probe at him, a probe that was fully as strong as any of Shastylt.

  Dainyl merely smiled, letting the line of purple, invisible to any without Talent, sheet away from his shields, even as he gestured once more for her to be seated. For all the power she had displayed, he could sense that Alcyna had held back some of her strength. “I’m not here to deliver orders or bad news or anything like that.”

  “You have shields worthy of a High Alector, Dainyl. It’s too bad you have little else, but that makes you a perfect tool for Zelyert and Shastylt.” Alcyna finally seated herself.

  “You already knew that. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “It would have been difficult to cover up my death in your study.”

  “Better and better.” Alcyna laughed.

  Dainyl was amazed at the warmth of her laugh, so at odds with the coldness he sensed within her.

  “You have learned a great deal from Lystrana, haven’t you?” noted Alcyna. “Does she wish to be the first woman to hold the Duarchy?”

  “Not any more than do you.” Dainyl watched her closely, with both eyes and Talent.

  “Oh…so she wishes to advance you.”

  “No more than you wish to advance Brekylt, or…perhaps a great deal less.”

  “Now that we have all that out of the way,” she replied brightly, “why are you here? Officially, that is?”

  “I told you. Shastylt ordered me to come here and meet with you, and to see what you and the Myrmidons are doing. I also wanted to learn more about the pteridons we’ve lost in the last two seasons.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know how that happened, Dainyl.” Her voice was mocking, but with a gentleness of tone that was almost disarming. Almost.

  “Oh…I know that it had to be the ancients. What I was interested in was the circumstances surrounding each loss.” As he finished speaking, he could sense both curiosity and disinterest, but he waited for her to reply.

  “They were interfering. So I had a squad attack them.”

  “The ones lost near Scien, you mean? The ones lost over the Spine of Corus were on solo flights.”

  “If you had Talent other than shields, Dainyl, you would be formidable. But then, if you did, you wouldn’t be Shastylt’s submarshal.”

  “Did your squad kill the ancients?”

  “In one case, yes. In the other, we think so. There aren’t very many left, you know, and each one that we destroy frees more lifeforce for us. I don’t know why the Duarches just didn’t rid the world of them in the beginning, when they were dying out.”

  “I would judge they felt it was unnecessary. It still probably is.” About that, Dainyl had his doubts, but wanted to see how she reacted.

  Alcyna shrugged. “I wanted to see what it would take.”

  “And…was it worth it? To lose two pteridons?”

  “No. Not to take out one ancient, but it was useful to learn they cannot stand up to several skylances concentrated on them at once.”

  As appalled as he was at Alcyna’s casual spending of the lost Myrmidons and pteridons, Dainyl could at least understand her reasoning—and that she was telling the absolute truth, at least as she saw it…with some reservations.

  “There may be hope for you yet, Dainyl. You don’t even look shocked. You would have been once, you know.”

  Dainyl wasn’t certain that represented an improvement in his character, but he nodded. “Times and circumstances change.”

  “I’d be happy to turn all the records of those flights over to you for your inspection.”

  “I’m certain that they reveal nothing that they should not.”

  “I imagine your records of what happened in Dramur don’t, either.”

  “How can you say that?” Dainyl grinned. “They’re absolutely accurate in what they state.”

  Alcyna laughed in her misleadingly warm tone. “We must have a leisurely dinner together, the three of us. Brekylt is actually in Dulka today and this evening, but I am certain he would be pleased to have dinner with us tomorrow night. I assume you will be staying for at least a day or two.”

  “I would be pleased to accept such an invitation. And tomorrow morning, I will take you up on the suggestion that I peruse the records of the encounters with the ancients,” replied Dainyl, although he was well aware that Alcyna had not strictly tendered such an offer. “In the meantime, perhaps one of your undercaptains could provide me with a guided tour of the headquarters compound this afternoon. I would not wish to impose upon you unduly.”

  “You are so thoughtful.” Alcyna paused. “Undercaptain Veluara would be pleased to do so, once you have inspected the senior guest quarters. I will send her there to meet you.”

  “I appreciate that.” Dainyl recognized the undercaptain’s name as a squad leader in Fourth Company, but he had seen nothing else on her.

  Alcyna rose. “I’ll walk over to the senior officers’ quarters with you.”

  Dainyl stood, conscious that his left leg was still slightly sore, possibly from the chill of Table travel, and followed Alcyna.

  The corridor outside her study remained vacant, and not by coincidence, Dainyl was certain, as she accompanied him back down and through the back archway and double doors.

  The flight stage stood in the rear courtyard—equidistant from the back of the headquarters building, the front of the pteridon stages, and the quarters. Only half the pteridons were sunning themselves on the top of their stages, their blue crystal beaks and talons glinting in the afternoon sun.

  “Is one of the companies deployed, or are you running dispatches?”

  “There are two squads from Third Company temporarily flying out of Norda under Majer Noryan. From there they can cover the area south of Scien, as well as the Northern Pass. We’ve had reports of brigands along the pass, but so far no one has lost anything. Another squad remains at Coren until the High Alector of Justice is satisfied that situation is fully in control.”

  “Will it ever be, given the greed of landers?” asked Dainyl.

  “Enough so that third squad can return. Possibly within a few weeks.” Alcyna started up the outside steps to the upper level of the quarters building.

  Dainyl followed her up the stairs and along the railed balcony to the south end of the building.

  “You should find these quite comfortable, far better than the quarters of Cadmian officers in Dramur.”

  “I am certain I will.”

  An even warmth flowed toward Dainyl as Alcyna opened the quarters door.

  “I had the duty staff light the stove in the sitting room,” she said. “It is a brisk day, and Table travel can be somewhat…chilling.”

  “You are very thoughtful.” Thoughtful—and forewarned by someone of exactly when to expect a traveling submarshal, and that notice had to have been through a Table.

  “Undercaptain Veluara will be here shortly. If you discover anything that needs my attention, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

  “From what I have already seen, Alcyna, I doubt that there will be any need to bring anything to your personal attention.”

  Once Alcyna departed, Dainyl walked through the quarters, taking in the sitting room with the wide window that offered a view of the flight stage, the rear of headquarters, and the greenish waters of the sound beyond the bluff. A wide table desk was set against an inside wall, with a settee and two armchairs positioned so that the heat of the black porcelain stove radiated to all three.

  The bedchamber contained an enormous triple-width bed, a chest that would have swallowed without difficulty ten times what Dainyl had brought in his saddlebags. Again, he observed that all the furniture was either black or silver, or some combination of both. He also noted that his spare uniform had been hung in the oversized armoire, and his toiletries laid out in the bathchamber. His Talent senses suggested that nothing had been altered or searched at length.

  After washing up, he returned to the sitting room and settled int
o one of the armchairs to soak up the warmth while waiting for the undercaptain to appear.

  Through the window he could see one of the Duarches’ sea vessels headed southeast down the center of the sound toward the ocean. His first impressions suggested that, outwardly, everything was as it should be, and that meant that Alcyna and Brekylt had gone to great lengths to conceal whatever they had in mind.

  Was he imagining that?

  He shook his head.

  5

  Under the bright midmorning sun of Tridi—on the warmest day of early spring so far—Mykel shifted his weight in the saddle of the roan. His fingers dropped to his belt, barely brushing the hidden sheath that held the dagger of the ancients—that miniature blade that was not only older, but tougher and harder than any steel forged by men or alectors on Acorus. Mykel had done his best to dismiss the legend that it bore a curse for its possessor, and the belief that the curse and dagger could be released only when the dagger was accepted as a gift by one’s worst enemy—one’s worst good-hearted enemy at that.

  His lips curled. He hadn’t realized he’d been that hated when he’d accepted the dagger from the chandler in Jioha. He hadn’t paid for it, now that he recalled what had happened. The chandler had accepted his coins only as a gift to the hungry children of the village. Not that he had felt cursed, not any more than any Cadmian officer, at least. Besides, in a strange way, the dagger reminded him of Rachyla, although he doubted he would ever see the seltyr’s green-eyed daughter again. She certainly would not wish to see him, and he doubted he would soon return to Dramur.

  He shook his head, then watched from the low rise as Seventeenth Company’s third squad rode along a dirt track that resembled all too many roads in the more remote areas of Corus.

  “Third squad! On the guide! Firing line to the left! Firing line to the left!” The high-voiced order came from Esceld, the stolid but young squad leader.

  The trooper riding guide turned left and halted at the angle that presented the best firing position for the battered straw targets set on stands a hundred yards to the south.

  The squad’s response was ragged at best.

  “Third squad! Fire!”

  Instead of a volley that should have been almost synchronized, the rifle reports were even more ragged than the line of twenty-one mounts.

  “Stand easy!” ordered Esceld, looking to the older and more grizzled figure mounted to his right.

  “Don’t fumble with your pieces!” ordered Bhoral. “You rein up in a firing line, with your weapons ready. You fool around with your piece, and Reillies and irregulars will give you your own plot of land.”

  As he listened to the battalion senior squad leader address Loryalt’s third squad, Mykel concealed a grin—and the exasperation beneath. After seeing the problems the undercaptain was having with Seventeenth Company, Mykel had sent Bhoral to help the undercaptain’s squad leaders with training.

  “Spemat! You want to die now?” continued Bhoral. “You keep that up, and I won’t wait for some Reillie to plug you. That’s if your mates don’t get you first.”

  The angular redhead flushed and stiffened, but kept his eyes on the straw targets set on the hillside to the south.

  “You think any irregulars are going to wait while you figure out which end of the rifle is the stock and where the trigger is?” demanded Bhoral.

  “Third squad! Column by twos! Forward!” ordered Esceld.

  After a last glance at third squad, Mykel turned his mount and eased the roan toward the next hill, where Fifteenth Company and Sixteenth Company were practicing marksmanship against weighted sand-glass targets that sprang up from irregular positions. Neither company needed that much maneuvering practice, and Mykel hadn’t been that pleased with the marksmanship of any of the companies in Dramur—not when it turned out that he’d accounted for almost a quarter of all the casualties inflicted on the seltyrs’ troops by Fifteenth Company.

  As he rode over the low hillock to the next terrain maneuvering area, Mykel heard the sound of rifles. Before he had ridden another hundred yards, the firing died away.

  Rhystan turned his mount and rode to meet Mykel.

  The two reined up well back of Sixteenth Company.

  Mykel could hear the voice of Murthyt—the company senior squad leader.

  “Remember. You get a moment when no one’s firing, and you reload, even if you got a shell or two in the magazine. Might not get a chance later.”

  “His voice carries,” Rhystan said. “Farther than mine.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Better than when we were preparing for Dramur, Majer.” Rhystan offered a tight smile. “Some of them are actually hitting the targets consistently.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Sixteenth Company will have to take the lead. I’ll be counting on you especially.” Mykel was stating the obvious, but he’d learned that what he’d often thought obvious wasn’t always to others. “How is Fabrytal doing?”

  “He’ll be fine. He needs experience, but he’s solid, and he’s got a good senior squad leader in Chyndylt.” Rhystan paused, then asked, “How bad do you think it’ll be? Compared to Dramur?”

  “Better and worse. The irregulars probably won’t have the kind of equipment and mounts the seltyrs’ companies did, but the ones that are left have survived an attack by the Myrmidons. They were good enough to wipe out the local garrison. The colonel said it was small and not very well commanded.”

  “I can’t say I understand.”

  “That they didn’t send a battalion with the Myrmidons? I don’t, either, except that I don’t think they like to mix us. Maybe they worry about the Myrmidons using the skylances on us.” Mykel frowned. “I got the impression that they thought the Myrmidons had eliminated the problem.”

  “Without troops on the ground? It doesn’t work that way. Not for long, and then we’ve got to pick up the pieces later, when the locals think it ought to have been solved, and the rebels or brigands are better prepared.”

  Mykel laughed, ruefully. “Something like that is always the problem. By the time anyone realizes it’s a problem and we get sent…”

  “Like Dramur,” affirmed Rhystan. “Will we have to patrol until they start shooting the way it was there?”

  “Not from what the colonel’s said, and unless things change, I’ll be the senior officer.”

  “That’ll be good.” Rhystan paused. “Ah…”

  “Yes?” Mykel had a good idea what Rhystan had in mind, but he wasn’t completely sure. So he waited.

  “You led Fifteenth Company from the front, Majer…”

  Mykel laughed again, with warmth and amusement. “You’re being very tactful, Rhystan. I take it that you feel such tactics are not appropriate for battalion commanders?”

  “No, sir. We might get stuck with another Majer Vaclyn. Or I might get stuck doing it.”

  “You’d do fine, but I’d rather not hand you command that way, and I hear what you’re saying.”

  “That could be hard for you, sir, seeing as you’re the best shot in the battalion.”

  Mykel grinned. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t use my rifle, Captain. I’ll try not to use it from the front.”

  “I won’t argue with that, sir.” Rhystan laughed softly. “I might remind you, though.”

  Mykel hoped Rhystan didn’t have to, because, if the captain did, one way or another matters would not be what either of them wished. He just smiled. “I’m going to check on Fifteenth Company. You don’t need me looking over your shoulder. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mykel eased the roan along the dirt track, thoughts swirling through his mind, the same thoughts he’d had for weeks. He’s been in the Cadmians for ten years, and he’d never seen—or heard of—as much action and unrest as had happened in the last two years. He’d never encountered an ancient before, nor had he ever heard of anyone who had. Yet less than two seasons ago, one had talked to him, insisting that he find his talent to see beyond
his eyes or he would perish. That was unprecedented. So was the destruction of two pteridons by the ancients, and the fact that Myrmidon Submarshal Dainyl had avoided explaining the true cause of their destruction.

  Now, in less than two weeks, Third Battalion would be headed south, to deal with another rebellion of sorts.

  Just what was happening…and why?

  6

  An alector who speaks of choices has no place in the governing of a world, for the very word implies an equality between alternatives, and such choice is an illusion. Thus, the alector either deceives himself or others. If he deceives himself, he will administer badly. If he deceives others, his deception will eventually be discovered, and the anger created by such deception will undo any benefits that may have momentarily accrued.

  While each alternative facing an alector may have differing advantages and disadvantages, alternatives are never equal. The task of any high alector is to determine the best of alternatives in light of the desired objective and then implement his decision in the manner most efficacious for its accomplishment.

  Those who prattle about choices either lack understanding of the matter before them or seek to deceive others into believing that a true choice between equal alternatives exists. The only choice is between a good alternative and one not so good. An alector who cannot differentiate between such and make such a determination based upon what is and what will be has failed to learn enough to understand the situation before him. If one must decide between dissimilar alternatives, the overall effectiveness of each must be determined, as well as the costs, the timing, and the lifeforce expenditure gained and that required.

  In the case of similar alternatives, the same process must obtain. No two pearapples are equal, nor are any two oaks, nor any two steers, nor any two alectors. Nor are any two alternatives. Each alternative has ramifications and outcomes, and those must be studied and determined, in light of what best serves the Archon and the future of all alectors.