Cadmian's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Maybe twenty years back, we took a whole battalion to Lysia. For some reason, the High Alector of Justice replaced all the Cadmians there. I was just a fresh deckhand then.”

  Three quick chimes rang out from the deck above.

  “You can start ’em up the ramp, Majer. Keep a good two yards between each horse. No more than two on the ramp at once.”

  “Thank you.” Mykel turned to Dyarth. “Thirteenth Company, forward. Two yards between each mount. Only two on the ramp at once. Pass it back.”

  “Yes, sir. Thirteenth Company! Forward! Two yards between…”

  Bhoral followed Undercaptain Dyarth.

  “Everyone forms up on the forward deck after the mounts are stabled,” Mykel said as Bhoral passed him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mykel could have gone ahead and left Bhoral to bring up the rear, but he could get a good look at each and every trooper as they passed by him, and if his odd talent told him something he didn’t already know about the troopers in his battalion, so much the better.

  By the time Thirteenth Company and almost half of Fourteenth had passed him, his senses confirmed that, as the troopers were of differing sizes and shapes, so were their auras. He looked past a young ranker and stiffened inside. The man who was next in line did not meet Mykel’s eyes, and his aura held streaks of an ugly red.

  Mykel struggled mentally to recall the name of the trooper—Sacyrt. The ranker had been transferred from Second Battalion, and, although Mykel could not have proved it, the color of his aura suggested a troublemaker. “Sacyrt?”

  “Yes, sir.” Surprise and wariness colored the ranker’s voice.

  “I trust you’ll find Seventeenth Company a better fit. I expect the best from every man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the older ranker led his mount past Mykel, he heard murmurs.

  “…picked Sacyrt out…”

  “…just hope he doesn’t pick any of us out…don’t want a majer watching you…”

  Mykel hoped Sacyrt felt the same way, but troublemakers usually thought that different rules applied to them. He concentrated on the men as his own former company—Fifteenth Company, led by Fabrytal—started up the ramp.

  By the time the last troopers and mounts—except his own—had walked up the ramp and into the ship, Mykel had a dull headache. He rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath, then untied the roan from a cleat attached to the nearest bollard. His saddlebags bulged, partly from the ammunition belt he had tucked in at the last moment.

  He stepped onto the railed ramp. The surface had been coated with lacquer and then dusted with sand, so that hooves had more purchase than on bare or painted wood.

  “Easy, big fellow,” he murmured to the roan, trying to project reassurance. The railing on the ramp was sturdy, but not enough to take the weight of a spooked mount, and just before the ramp entered the ship, man and mount would be some ten yards above a very hard stone pier.

  Once inside the ship, where all the bulkheads and decks seemed to be of the same greenish-tinted steel, another crewman stood waiting. His eyes took in Mykel’s collar insignia. “Majer, your horse’s stall is forward. Straight to the next passageway. Then turn forward—that’s to your right—and go as far as you can. Your stall will be the first one on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he led the roan inboard and then forward, Mykel was reminded once more that the ship had been built to carry horses—or alectors. The overheads in the main passageways were close to three yards in height.

  The stalls were narrow, each one barely half the width of one in the stables in headquarters, but that was as much for the protection of the mount in heavy seas as to save space. Still, it would take very heavy seas to make footing unsteady on the Duarches’ Honor.

  After stabling the roan, Mykel made his way forward and up two decks, carrying his saddlebags and gear. Unlike the last trip, he rated a stateroom to himself, even if it had little more than space enough for two bunks, one atop the other, and two doorless lockers barely able to hold an officer’s travel gear. Mykel left the saddlebags and hurried forward to the open section of the main deck forward of the superstructure.

  Bhoral and most of the Third Battalion were already there.

  “Seventeenth Company’s last squads are still coming in,” announced Bhoral.

  “We can wait a few moments, but I’ll need to report to the captain.” Mykel glanced aft and up at the open forward bridge where there stood two alectors—the captain and his executive officer, two of the three alectors on a Duarchy ship. The other was the chief engineer.

  “You been on many of these ships?” Mykel’s only other shipboard travel had been to and from Dramur, but Bhoral had spent twenty years in the Cadmians.

  “Not many,” replied the senior squad leader. “This is the fourth. There aren’t that many ships. Ten, I think. Ship this size and this fast, you don’t need many.”

  Mykel glanced past Bhoral. “Here come our lagging squads.”

  The rankers and squad leaders of the fourth and fifth squads from Seventeenth Company eased into place.

  “Third Battalion, report!” ordered Bhoral.

  “Thirteenth Company, all present and accounted for….”

  “Fourteenth Company, all present….”

  When the muster was completed, Mykel stepped forward. “The rules here are simple. We’ll muster twice a day, before breakfast, and before supper. From lights out to morning call, you stay in your bunking spaces or the shipboard latrines…if you can stand them….”

  That got a slight laugh.

  “All other times, we have the freedom of the main deck, the mess deck, and the stable deck. Don’t go anywhere else. We’ll be on the ship until Decdi. That’s all for now.”

  “Dismissed!” ordered Bhoral.

  Mykel turned and moved quickly back to the ladder up to the ship’s bridge. When he reached the lower bridge, he found himself facing a ship’s officer, a man with graying brown hair and a single silver diamond insignia affixed to his collar.

  “Majer, I’m Cylison, the navigator’s mate. The exec asked me to take your report. He and the captain will be occupied for the next few glasses.”

  “I’d like to report that Third Cadmian Battalion, Mounted Rifles, is ready for departure.”

  “I’ll convey that to the exec and captain.” Cylison smiled. “You’re fairly new to battalion command, aren’t you?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Mykel laughed ruefully.

  “Not by the embarkation. That was as smooth as any I’ve seen, but you’re the youngest majer I’ve encountered in fifteen years. You came hurrying up to report, and you were surprised to see me. You’re all told to report embarkation to the captain, but that means he needs to be informed, not that you’ll normally see him or the exec. If the captain needs you, you’ll know.”

  Mykel nodded, trying not to be thrown off by the fact that the navigator’s aura also bore faint tinges of purplish pink, something he’d seen before only with Majer Hersiod, but the navigator didn’t seem at all intransigent the way Hersiod had.

  “We should be porting in Southgate around the second glass past midday on Decdi, but that could change if we run into high seas. That sometimes happens this time of year, but the reports from the Myrmidons indicate seas are calm as far south as Hafin.” Cylison smiled warmly. “How did you get to be a majer so young…if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Third Battalion was the one assigned to the Dramuran…problem.” Mykel still wasn’t certain what to call the last campaign, and the most generally used term was the word “problem.” “After the majers in charge were killed, the senior captain took over running the compound in Dramur, and I ended up commanding the remaining companies of Third Battalion. The submarshal of Myrmidons appreciated what we did. The senior captain was immediately promoted to majer in charge of all Cadmian operations on Dramur, and I ended up with Third Battalion.” Mykel shrugged. “How did you—”

>   “I’m sorry to have to break this off, Majer, but the captain will be needing me—and your report. Best of luck in Southgate, in case I don’t see you before we port.” With that, Cylison turned and hurried up the ladder to the upper bridge.

  Mykel managed to keep a pleasant expression on his face as he came back down the ladder and forward to a spot on the main deck, a good thirty yards aft of the bow on the starboard side of the ship. Once there, he looked back at the bridge, where he saw the two alectors, but not the navigator. Neither looked in his direction.

  The ship hummed, or so it seemed, as Mykel watched the last of the heavy lines be unfastened from the man-high bollards on the dock and then reeled in by the deck crew. Mykel sensed something, not exactly like an aura, nor like the ancient soarer who had confronted him in Dramur, but similar and yet different. There was the same sense of purpleness that had tinged the navigator, except it was far stronger, and that was despite the fact that it was located somewhere aft and far below him. Was that what propelled the vessel? But how? Did it touch or affect all those who crewed the ship? Had Hersiod returned from his last deployment by ship? Offhand, Mykel didn’t know, but he thought not.

  Rhystan eased up to the railing beside Mykel. “Could I join you, Majer?”

  “Please.”

  After several moments, Rhystan broke the conversational silence. “Couldn’t tell this ship from the last one, except for the name. Even the alectors up there—” He gestured back toward the bridge. “—look like every other alector.”

  “They even call all the ships something of the Duarches,” Mykel added. “Duarches’ Honor, Duarches’ Legacy, Duarches’ Valor…”

  “Majer…what do you think about Hyalt?” Rhystan’s words were cautious.

  “There’s more that we haven’t been told,” Mykel replied.

  “Is it true that they sent the Myrmidons there first?”

  “According to the colonel, the Myrmidons used their skylances and smashed the heart of the irregulars. Now we’re supposed to run down the rest and build stronger local garrison.”

  “There isn’t any more?”

  “I’m sure there is. I asked, but never got any more information. So I even dug up histories of the place, and I’ve got a stash of maps with my gear.”

  “Sounds like another mess, sir, Dramur all over again.”

  There was the slightest lurch, and then a dull thrumming vibrated through the Duarches’ Honor as the vessel eased away from the pier.

  “Let’s hope that’s enough, sir.”

  “You’ve been through it once before,” Mykel pointed out. “That will help. And if you see anything I should know, don’t wait to tell me.”

  “I won’t.” Rhystan paused. “That’s all I had for now, sir.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  Rhystan nodded, then stepped away.

  Once Rhystan had left, Mykel glanced aft, back toward Elcien. Even after two voyages, he was still amazed at how quickly the huge vessel had built up speed. Less than a quarter of a glass had passed, and they were several vingts west of the western tip of the isle that held Elcien.

  Rhystan’s remarks—and what he sensed about the ship itself with his new talent—bothered him. Perhaps his younger brother Viencet had been right after all, that there was far more behind the alectors, and that they had made a concerted effort to hide it.

  He glanced aft, in the direction of the unknown force that he was convinced propelled the ship, a force that Mykel had just recently learned to sense. That suggested that the alectors—or some of them—could also sense it. Yet they kept it hidden, and, the Cadmians, even the officers, were limited to where they could go on board the ship, and the engine spaces were sealed.

  That suggested to Mykel that his “talent” was something that possibly many alectors had, and that few landers or others did. Should he conceal what he could see? How?

  He looked out across the dark green waters of the Bay of Ludel.

  16

  On Octdi, Dainyl had slept later than he should have and had not arrived at headquarters until nearly a glass after morning muster. That had been the first time he’d ever been so tardy. Even so, he had been exhausted, and not really fit for more than catching up on reports, and getting briefed by Colonel Dhenyr. After Dhenyr left, Dainyl found himself wondering how Alcyna had suborned the colonel—if she had—since Dhenyr hadn’t been stationed in the east for close to ten years.

  For all that, Dainyl paid close attention to the colonel. Fortunately, little of major consequence had occurred in Dainyl’s absence. The marshal had been nowhere to be seen, not during all of Octdi, for which Dainyl was more than grateful.

  After another night’s decent sleep, Dainyl had spent the half-day of duty on Novdi at headquarters, checking Cadmian deployment schedules and Myrmidon duty rotations against the accounting ledgers. As always, the maintenance requirements for Lysia seemed high, and he mentally reaffirmed his decision to visit Lysia after Prosp and Dulka. He’d decided to visit Prosp and Dulka first, because not much of import seemed to have happened there, although the resupply levels seemed higher than they should have been in Dulka. He wanted his unannounced inspections to seem as innocuous as possible in the beginning. Also, he’d have more background information before tackling Lysia.

  The remainder of Novdi and all of Decdi, he spent with Lystrana—happily, trying to avoid thinking about the political currents that swirled through Elcien, Ludar, and Alustre, with ripples that might affect all of Corus.

  Londi morning found Dainyl at the Hall of Justice, less than half a glass after dawn. As he walked along the stone-walled and subterranean corridor toward the Table chair, a door opened ahead of him on his left.

  “Dainyl…there you are.” High Alector Zelyert’s voice was deep, rumbling, with an overtone of warmth that was not matched by the emotions behind his shields. “Shastylt said you would be here early. I would like a few words with you before you depart.”

  Dainyl inclined his head, leaving his personal shields firmly in place. “As you desire, sir.” He followed Zelyert into the small and spare chamber that was the High Alector’s private study.

  The High Alector of Justice stood a quarter of a head taller than Dainyl, and his flawless alabaster skin was even paler than that of the submarshal, especially in contrast to his shimmering black hair and deep violet eyes. As usual, at least when Dainyl had seen him, Zelyert wore a tunic of brilliant green, trimmed in a deep purple, with matching purple trousers.

  Dainyl closed the door and stood waiting.

  Zelyert did not seat himself. “I will be brief. Marshal Shastylt relayed your concerns about the fashion in which the lesser submarshal has handled the ancients and about the recruiting practices of the High Alector of the East. You were right to be circumspect…and cautious. There may be reasons for these actions that are in fact perfectly acceptable and in accord with the Code and the greater purposes of the Archon. Or they may be as you suspect.”

  “Highest…sir…I do not assume to know enough to claim a suspicion, only that what I perceived appeared to merit your attention and that of the marshal.”

  Zelyert laughed, a sound at variance with the earlier warmth in his words. “I can see why Shastylt holds you in such esteem, Dainyl. You prefer to let the facts speak as they will.”

  “I have observed that what one sees often is a reflection of where one stands, sir, and that more than one pair of eyes are often necessary to see what is.”

  “You sound like the mystic Dulachamyt, now, and a fighting commander cannot afford to rely on mysticism.”

  “I stand corrected.” Dainyl maintained a pleasant smile and an equally pleasant tone of voice.

  “You do indeed, and I am pleased that you remain wise enough to understand that. What do you hope to discover on these journeys?”

  “Whatever may be at variance with what I was told in Alustre. If nothing appears at variance, then I will report that.”

  “Whatever you
discover, you and the marshal will report officially that nothing is at variance. Leave it to us to report any discrepancies to the Duarches personally. If there are significant discrepancies, others besides the High Alector of the East may well be involved, and it would not be wise to provide advance warning to them.”

  “Yes, sir. I can see that.”

  “Good. I thought you would. Have a productive journey. We look forward to hearing what you discover.”

  “It may take trips to a number of Tables, sir, and as long as a week, if not longer.”

  “Take the time necessary, Dainyl. What you discover, one way or another, is of great import.” Zelyert smiled, then gestured toward the door. “I will not keep you longer.”

  “Highest…” murmured Dainyl, inclining his head before turning and departing.

  Dainyl made his way to the Table chamber, making certain that he replaced each Talent-lock that he passed. Before he stepped onto the Table, he slowly studied the entire chamber, seeking out, with Talent and all other senses, any possible hint of another hidden chamber. So far as he could tell, there was none. Was that because there were so many other adjoining chambers within the Hall of Justice, and all were hidden? Or was the use of Talent and architecture merely more clever?

  His conversation with Zelyert had been disturbing, for all its superficial pleasantness, particularly the points about Shastylt and Zelyert reporting privately anything Dainyl might find out. Dainyl had strong doubts that, if facts came to light suggesting less than honorable behavior by those he served, they would ever reach the ear of the Duarch. Nor would other information. And if Dainyl even revealed such to the marshal, Shastylt would certainly attempt to handle him as he had Tyanylt. Yet, at the moment, all Dainyl had were suspicions, without a single fact to support them—and he might well be wrong.

  Finally, he stepped up onto the Table, concentrating, falling through the stone and into the depths beneath….

  The darkness beneath the Table was slightly less dark than he recalled, but more chill. In the distance that could have been yards, or vingts, or hundreds or thousands of vingts from him, he could sense the directional wedges of the fourteen Tables, although the bright blue of Tempre and the brilliant yellow of Ludar were the clearest and strongest.