More than a score of alectors moved among the paintings, and Dainyl thought he saw his mother, but she disappeared behind a small group discussing one of the larger works.
The hall was floored with the traditional octagonal tiles of green marble, linked by smaller diamond tiles of gold marble, as were all of the large formal chambers. The hangings on the side walls, between the goldenstone columns, were of dark green velvet, trimmed in gold. Upon the small dais at the south end of the hall were seated four musicians, playing something Dainyl half-recognized and should have known. He frowned, trying to recall what it was.
“It’s Ghestalyn’s ‘Translation Variations,’” murmured Lystrana.
“Thank you.”
“We might as well start here,” she suggested.
Each painting was set upon its own easel, and separated from the others by several yards. Dainyl paused before the first on the east side of the hall, a view of the Duarch’s Palace from out in the bay, clearly just at sunset. The walls shimmered with an unworldly glow, and Jeluyne had caught that transitory orange twilight illumination that lasted but for moments, but promised a glorious future.
“Not bad,” he murmured. He couldn’t have even done a single brushstroke, but no alector would admit such in public.
“I like this one,” said Lystrana from before the second easel.
Dainyl slipped beside her and murmured in her ear. “I like you better.”
Lystrana flushed ever so slightly, then shook her head. “What do you think of the painting?”
Dainyl studied the image of an oceangoing vessel, spray flying from the bow, with rocky cliffs set behind the ship, probably Ludyn Point. “It’s well done, but I think she does buildings better.”
They moved on down the row of paintings.
“I haven’t seen Kylana, and she’s usually here every chance she gets,” mused Lystrana. “She always wants to be seen.”
“Preferably with those in power,” murmured Dainyl. “Or those who can tell her the latest intrigues on Ifryn.”
“Some information on that wouldn’t hurt,” Lystrana replied in an even lower voice.
“True.”
Most of the images were ones recognizable to either Lystrana or Dainyl, if not both, until they reached the third painting in the second row. The painting showed a market square, filled with landers and indigens. Just to one side of the center was a lander patroller, wearing the double-scepter badge of the Duarchy, his finger pointing accusingly at a smashed squash or gourd on the stone sidewalk before the small produce stand. The seller was an indigen woman who was backed up against her small cart, listening. Behind them both, a sly-looking man was lifting the seller’s coin box. None of the others in the square seemed to notice either the dispute between the patroller and the woman—or the ongoing theft.
“Clever,” said Dainyl. “I suppose that must be the eastern market square.”
“It could be any market square,” replied his wife.
“Lystrana!” called a voice Dainyl recognized all too well. “And Dainyl.”
The two turned to see Dainyl’s mother moving toward them. Alyra wore the dark silver gray that she usually affected, with a shimmering silver vest.
“It’s so good to see the two of you out.” Alyra immediately faced Lystrana. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. At times, Kytrana makes me uncomfortable, but I understand that’s to be expected.”
“Oh, it is. Dainyl left me uncomfortable more than sometimes.” Alyra frowned, slightly. “I’m glad to hear that, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant. Didn’t you hear? Your colleague Zestafyn was attacked by a wild translation last night just as he was about to translate from Ludar back to Elcien.”
Dainyl could sense Lystrana’s shock, although his wife only nodded somberly as she asked, “Last night? Just last night? How is he?”
Alyra shook her head. “It was one of the dangerous ones. There was a Talent explosion.”
“Oh…oh…I didn’t know. Poor Kylana.”
“Indeed…poor child. She was so distraught she must have found a lightcutter and turned it on herself. Such a terrible tragedy. So truly awful.”
Dainyl swallowed silently. His mother scarcely knew Kylana and had cared less for her posturing. What Alyra was conveying was not sympathy or gossip, but a warning.
“She was so devoted to Zestafyn,” Lystrana replied, “but I never would have expected anything like that.”
“So unexpected. Such a tragedy. One moment, you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, carrying out your duties…and the next moment…” Alyra shook her head. “I suppose anything can happen anymore, even to the most faithful administrators and Myrmidons. But…we shouldn’t dwell on what we can’t change.” She smiled brightly. “I’m so glad to see you here. How are you finding the exhibit? Isn’t Jeluyne marvelous? I so admire her use of color and her choice of subjects.”
“This one is certainly different,” Dainyl said.
“One can’t ignore the landers and indigens. They have their place. I do prefer the one of the Duarch’s Palace, myself…”
Dainyl had never heard his mother prattle so. She was more than worried.
He definitely needed to get to see Zelyert, and not just about the growing number of icewolves. The High Alector might well know that, but Dainyl doubted he knew about why Zestafyn had been killed. Equally important, Dainyl also needed to discover what Zelyert knew.
And…he and Lystrana needed to maintain their personal shields far more than they had.
36
Late in the afternoon on Novdi, Mykel rode at a measured pace southwest along the high road, heading back toward the center of Southgate. Despite his earlier worries, the training was going well, and he’d had no problem in letting the rankers and officers knock off two glasses earlier.
He yawned, then stretched in the saddle. He had to admit that he was tired. In addition to trying to keep track of each company’s progress and needs, at night, he’d been studying maps and whatever he could find about the Hyalt area. He’d talked to those senior rankers and squad leaders—both in his battalion and among Sturyk’s troops—who had any knowledge of the roads, the trade, or the area. He knew more than when he’d begun, but not much.
He’d also spent more time trying to get a handle on his talent, studying the auras of various Cadmians, seeing if the auras indicated how they might act or react, and their self-possession. He had some ideas, but how accurate they were he wouldn’t know until Third Battalion saw action, and he was in no hurry for that to happen.
The road and the side streets were far busier on Novdi afternoon than they had been on the previous times he’d ridden out from the compound. Several times he had to rein up or slow down to avoid carts, wagons, or peddlers on foot. He tried to listen as he rode, and occasionally caught fragments of conversations, some with meaning and some baffling.
“…no need fullering…sweat it up…”
“…Merysa took in more coins after the ball…than all week…young swells can’t barely touch women…fancy like that…looks that good herself…best one in the house…”
“…might well as chisel cork…”
“…fodder’s up again…another copper a quint…suppose have to mix in fish meal…”
For all the traffic in the outer areas, the center of Southgate was as subdued and quiet as it had been the last Decdi he had been here. Mykel saw no one in the park, but he was earlier than an hour before sunset.
There were no hitching posts as such, but he did find a section of railing not far from the stele he judged to be closest to the villa of Seltyr Elbaryk. He tied his mount there and walked back to the stele. He had wanted to study the relief carvings.
For a moment, he just looked at the images in the stone. From their appearance, they had been done recently, but they felt old. Still, the stele didn’t have the feel he had begun to notice with the eternal stone of the high roads. The other aspect of the stele was that there
were absolutely no words inscribed in the stone beneath or above the relief.
Mykel glanced around, but saw no one in the nearer section of the memorial park. He slowly walked along the stone wall to the next stele. It was identical to the first. He continued to the third, and then the fourth. All were identical.
Having established that, Mykel looked more closely at the carving itself, trying to discern differences between the figures of the seltyrs.
Almost half a glass later, he sensed that someone was coming. He did not turn immediately, but it had to be Rachyla. Her aura was unmistakable. Someone was with her, and from what he could sense, it appeared to be a much older woman.
He continued to look at the stele, although he no longer studied it, but just waited, feeling as though he stood on the edge of a precipice.
“Majer?” Her voice bore a surprise Mykel knew she did not feel.
He turned. “Rachyla…what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Taking some time away from the compound. The park and the stelae had interested me, and I thought I’d look at them more closely. What about you?”
“I am taking a walk to where I can meditate.” Rachyla turned to the graying woman. “This is my aunt Herisha. She is my mother’s youngest sister.”
Although Rachyla had not said, Mykel gathered the impression from Herisha’s gray garments and withdrawn demeanor that she was not the aunt who was the mother of the current seltyr.
“And have you found anything startling in your perusal?” Her tone was not quite mocking.
“There’s a certain oddness about the image. Some things are obvious, though. The number of seltyrs matches the number in Southgate, and the number of villas around the memorial park. That would stand to reason, but behind them is an alector, and that is a much larger figure. Yet there never has been an alector in Southgate. There is no regional administrator, and there are no Myrmidons.”
“Perhaps the carving is a warning that, seen or not, there is an alector behind the seltyrs of Southgate.”
“That is possible.”
“Would you mind, niece, if I went over to the bench and rested?” asked Herisha.
“I should have suggested it,” Rachyla said, “although I will not be long. The majer is most courteous…for a Cadmian officer.”
Herisha nodded and turned, limping her way to a stone bench some twenty some yards away, close enough that the older woman could see everything, but hear little.
“It’s hard for her to walk long distances,” observed Mykel.
“She likes to leave the villa as much as I do, and I would not deprive her.”
“You are both prisoners.”
“I have been a prisoner before, Majer. Have you forgotten?”
“No. I never will.”
“Neither will I.” Surprisingly to Mykel, her tone was matter-of-fact, neither hard nor cutting.
“How did you come to be here?”
“My cousin Alarynt offered me the choice of dying in my bed or ‘visiting’ Elbaryk. I don’t have to spell out my choice, do I?”
“He couldn’t marry you off?”
“No. If I had sons to another seltyr, even to a junior son, they would have a claim on Stylan.”
Mykel should have guessed that.
“Besides, Alarynt is small-minded and vicious in a devious fashion. By returning me to Elbaryk, he places a burden on him. If anything happens to me, Elbaryk will be accused of not honoring his own mother and the women under his care. Those things do matter to him, unlike Alarynt.”
The more Mykel learned of the seltyrs, the less he cared for them and their customs, and, somehow, the more he cared for Rachyla.
“Do not pity me, Majer.” Those words were cold.
“I have admired you. I admire you more, the more I learn.”
“Such a desirable fate, to be admired by a Cadmian officer and a dagger of the ancients.”
“And respected, unlike some others who claim they care.”
Rachyla half-turned. “There are no images of the daggers of the ancients.” She made it as a flat statement. “Not anywhere.”
Mykel understood her change of subject, he feared. “Why might that be?”
“Memorials are for those who do great deeds. The few daggers who survived tried nothing of import, and those who attempted more were all discovered by the evil ones and killed.”
“Your history is so cheerful,” Mykel said dryly. “Do you know any that is more encouraging?”
“For a Cadmian and a dagger of the ancients? I think not.”
“You have such promising futures for us both,” he said gently.
“I cannot change what will be, Majer. You must understand that.”
Mykel thought she had given the slightest emphasis to the word “I,” but he was not certain.
Rachyla stepped back. “I must meditate. Herisha must be able to report that I did. Good afternoon, Majer.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Rachyla.”
“I am not a Lady of Dramur.”
“You are, and you always will be.” Mykel bowed ever so slightly. To me, if to no one else.
She turned and walked swiftly toward her chaperone, not ever looking back. Mykel watched her for a time, then finally walked back to where he had tied his mount. He had to believe that he would see her again, yet Third Battalion would be riding out well before the next Novdi.
He mounted slowly, looking toward the memorial park, but Rachyla was nowhere to be seen.
37
In the end, Dainyl just appeared at the Hall of Justice early on Londi, prepared to wait for Zelyert. He did not have to, because the High Alector of Justice was there and motioned him into his private study.
“And where are you headed today, Dainyl?”
“Just to see you, sir.”
“Oh?”
“Some information has come to my attention. I never know what you may know, sir,” Dainyl began, “but there are several matters which, by themselves, would seem insignificant—”
“Dainyl…things are bad enough without your sounding like Shastylt. Just tell me.”
“The icewolves have reappeared in the Iron Stem area, and they’re lifeforce predators. Asulet won’t speculate, but I’m judging he believes the ancients are using them for some purpose to weaken us. Second, the Duarch’s head of intelligence discovered that one of Brekylt’s chief engineers was diverting significant resources to constructing some sort of equipment in Fordall. It might be military equipment, perhaps forbidden equipment. On his return from reporting to the High Alector of Engineering and possibly the Duarch of Ludar, he suffered a Table translation mishap in Ludar with enough power to create a Talent explosion. His wife immediately—apparently—killed herself with a lightcutter that was never issued to him or her. Third, even before Zestafyn was killed, the chief engineer who had been diverting resources died in a pteridon mishap while being transported to Alustre, and a number of experienced engineers were translated from Ifryn to Alustre to replace him and the others involved in the transgression.”
Dainyl could sense that Zelyert was not all that surprised by the ice-wolves, or by Zestafyn’s death. The other occurrences did create a reaction, almost hidden, but not quite.
“Does Shastylt know of these?”
“He knows about the ice-wolves. He was the one who dispatched me to Lyterna to talk to Asulet. They kill by taking lifeforce, but rifles are effective against them.”
“And the other matters?” pressed Zelyert.
“They are not properly within Myrmidon jurisdiction, and I thought you should know.”
The High Alector of Justice nodded slowly. “You do not trust your own marshal.”
“He is very preoccupied these days, sir.”
“You are standing over the translation tube to oblivion, figuratively, of course.” Zelyert’s deep voice was mild.
“Perhaps, sir, but I thought such a translation would be less likely once the info
rmation was in your possession, since—”
“Since someone wanted to keep it from me? Nonsense. Young Zestafyn doubtless wanted to strike some sort of bargain with those around Samist. He always has been playing both sides.”
Those words rang untrue, both in sound and to Dainyl’s Talent-senses, but he just nodded slowly.
“Even if he were not, that is the way in which it must be handled. Personal venality must be the cover for now.”
Dainyl doubted that would convince many, but he wasn’t about to argue.
“It won’t convince those that know,” Zelyert continued, “but what it will do is suggest that we are not strong enough to open the matter to the Duarches or the Archon.” His eyes narrowed. “What else have you discovered?”
“That the ancients have increased activities in the north, not all that far from Blackstear.”
“They would have to reappear now. Why do you think that is so?”
“I would judge that they can sense changes in lifeforce and Talent and the increased usage of the Tables for long translations.”
Zelyert stood. “That will do for now. You can send me a dispatch on any future developments that affect the Myrmidons or Cadmians.”
Dainyl rose as well. “Yes, sir.”
Dainyl was fortunate to find a carriage outside the Hall of Justice and arrived at Myrmidon headquarters a quarter glass after morning muster, not that his presence was usually required, but he’d always felt that senior officers who worked shorter glasses undermined their own authority and credibility.
Unfortunately, the calm lasted only until midmorning, when the marshal summoned him, this time though the duty messenger.
“Why were you in the Hall of Justice?” asked Shastylt before Dainyl had even closed the door to the marshal’s study. The senior alector’s voice was silky.
“Because the Highest wanted to know about the icewolves and how they had affected the Cadmians. He also wanted to know if we had seen any more activity by the ancients.”
“I suppose you had to tell him?”
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