Cadmian's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Could I have really said no to him?”

  “At times, you would do better to avoid him…if you understand what I mean.”

  Dainyl did, unhappily. “I have spent little time in the hall now that my investigations of the east and Dereka have been completed.”

  “That’s for the best.” Shastylt paused. “Do we have any newer reports from either Southgate or Iron Stem?”

  “We do, but nothing has changed. The Cadmians in Iron Stem report killing another of the icewolves, but matters with the iron works and mines are quiet. The Cadmians will be leaving Southgate on Tridi to ride to Hyalt with the new Hyalt companies. Third Battalion will be conducting more training en route. Also, from our Myrmidons, the recent reports show that we’ve lost no more pteridons or skylances.”

  “What is Alcyna planning?”

  “She’s only reporting that everything is normal—except that, even with the melting snow, Third Company has had no success in locating the missing Cadmian company.”

  “Will they find them, Submarshal?”

  “I would doubt it, sir.”

  “So would I.” Shastylt looked up. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With each passing week, Dainyl liked less and less the balancing act he was attempting between Shastylt and Zelyert, especially since he trusted neither. Shastylt he trusted least, because he felt the marshal’s ambition was far more personal, while whatever Zelyert was attempting had at least some rationale of a higher purpose.

  But then, he reflected, either would remove him if it suited the purpose at hand, and Zelyert was more to be respected than Shastylt.

  38

  Mykel stood beside the roan in the stable, ensuring that the materials he would present to the Hyalt council were secure. There was a proclamation, a work authorization for the new compound, and a letter of credit with no specified limit, although Mykel had been informed that he had best have good reasons if he drew more than two hundred golds a month. There was also a set of plans, based on those of the compound at Southgate, if a smaller version. He fastened the saddlebag tight, and then checked the saddle girths before leading the gelding out of the stall.

  After walking his mount out of the stable into the early-morning light and mounting, Mykel glanced around the compound. Third Battalion was forming up for the ride to Hyalt in good order, far more quickly than they had a month before, not that Mykel had emphasized the in-post formations nearly so much as weapons practice, combat tactics, and field maneuvers. But there was a definite carryover. The two Hyalt companies were slower, but better than he had expected, if not yet so sharp as he had hoped they would be.

  He turned the roan, checking the compound, checking the various companies. Some of the local Cadmians were watching as well. The dirt and dust he had noted when he arrived had vanished, and the local Cadmians appeared sharper. He wasn’t certain why, since he’d never said a word to Overcaptain Sturyk. Was it the power of example?

  He almost snorted. More likely the power of fear.

  Beyond the southwest corner of the compound lay Southgate, and in the center of the city were the villas of the seltyrs—and Rachyla. He kept thinking about her—and that was foolish. He certainly didn’t understand her. She’d volunteered where and when he could find her, and then she’d made it very clear that her situation—and her inclination—precluded any future between them. Mykel wasn’t interested in merely bedding her, and he couldn’t marry her, because she wasn’t about to marry a mere Cadmian. Nor would her cousin want her to her marry anyone. In any case, a Cadmian officer had no business even thinking about marriage until he was senior enough and settled enough to be a compound or a regimental commander.

  Mykel felt a crooked smile cross his lips. Telling himself that was all very good, but he wasn’t doing very well at listening to himself.

  Overcaptain Sturyk walked from the headquarters building toward Mykel, who waited for the older officer.

  Sturyk stopped several yards from Mykel and looked up. “I see you’re ready to move out.”

  “Less than a quarter glass, I’d say.”

  “I just wanted to wish you well, Majer.”

  “Thank you. You’ve provided solid support for Third Battalion, and I conveyed that to Colonel Herolt in my last dispatch report.”

  Sturyk smiled. “I appreciated the copy, sir.”

  “Sometimes a record helps, as I’m certain you’ve found.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you know when you’ll be returning? Or how long you’ll stay on the return?”

  Mykel shook his head. “That all depends on our success in Hyalt and how long it takes. How we return to Elcien—that’s up to the colonel or the marshal. They may order us somewhere else, rather than back through Southgate.”

  “You’re welcome here, anytime. The best of fortune, Majer.”

  “Thank you. And to you.” Mykel could see that the battalion was formed up, and he rode the score of yards into position to receive the muster report from Bhoral.

  “Third Battalion, all present and ready to ride, sir. First and Second Hyalt Companies, present and ready to ride.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded to Bhoral. “Let’s go.”

  “Battalion…forward, by companies…”

  Mykel eased the roan forward. Thirteenth Company would lead for the first glass, and he’d ride with Undercaptain Dyarth.

  The sound of hoofs on stone, the occasional squeaking of the supply wagons, and occasional commands were the loudest sounds that marked Third Battalion’s departure from the compound. Mykel did not actually join up with Thirteenth Company until just outside the gates.

  “Good morning, Dyarth.” Mykel moved his mount in on the left of the junior officer.

  “Good morning, sir. Looks like it’s going to be a hot ride.”

  “It probably will be until we get past Zalt. After that the land is higher, and we might get rains in the Coast Range. That’ll be a while, though.” Even on the high roads, and carrying their own rations, it would take at least five days to reach the way station at Zalt. A full week beyond Zalt lay Tempre, and then another five days to Hyalt. All that assumed good weather and no troubles with brigands or the supply wagons.

  Mykel doubted that everything would be trouble-free, although he’d had the wagons inspected and had insisted on spare draft horses.

  Neither officer spoke, except for orders to the company and battalion, until they were on the high road. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, and Mykel was glad that they were headed northeast, rather than due east and directly into the sun.

  “Sir?” ventured Dyarth. “Southgate…the people there…they were pleasant enough, but not like in Arwyn or Harmony or even up in Klamat.”

  “Are you suggesting that they were more interested in our rankers’ coin than in their person?” Mykel asked.

  “It did seem that way. Was Dramur like that?”

  “Worse, I’d say. People shot at us there.”

  “More than the Reillies or Squawts?”

  “Yes. Majer Vacyln lost two entire companies to those kinds of attacks.” Mykel wasn’t about to take responsibility for those casualties, not when the late majer had ignored his advice.

  “What do you think about Hyalt?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve tried to get more information, but no one seems to have much.” That bothered Mykel as much as anything.

  Less than a glass to the northeast of the last dwellings that could be properly said to be part of Southgate itself, rather than cots or huts—or estate villas overlooking the grasslands—the road began to slope downward on a gentle but definite grade into a wide and shallow valley. The grass that grew, while showing spring green, was definitely sparse. There were no cots or huts in the valley, and Mykel did not see any goats or sheep—or cattle.

  “Poor land,” observed Dyarth. “Leastwise, they’re not overgrazing it.”

  “I imagine the alectors would have something to say if they did.”

  “That’
s true.”

  Half a glass later, Mykel looked back. From where he rode, it appeared as if the higher ground on which Southgate had been built might once have been an island or a peninsula, but he hadn’t looked at the area around the harbor that closely. Certainly, the lower terrain through which Third Battalion rode was less fertile than the higher ground, and the opposite was usually the case. He could recall his cousins talking about how bottomland was so much richer—and how often the alectors restricted what they could do with it.

  He glanced at the high road ahead, stretching endlessly ahead, straight as a rifle barrel.

  39

  Mykel blotted away the dampness from his forehead, then shifted his weight in the saddle as the roan carried him southward on the high road. Beside him rode Rhystan, since Sixteenth Company was riding van for the rest of the morning. According to the last vingt-post, Hyalt was another five vingts ahead. Mykel’s eyes took in the terrain on both sides of the road, land covered with grass, thick and with the teal shade of new growth. To his left, grasslands stretched to the eastern horizon. To his right, the grasslands rose slowly to a hillcrest less than half a vingt away, then dropped, only to rise into a slightly higher rolling hill farther west. Perhaps three vingts west of the road, the grasslands ended, replaced with wooded hills that, in turn, were replaced by the low mountains that formed the eastern edge of the Coast Range. From what Mykel could see, the trees were low evergreens, mixed pines and junipers.

  In the few road cuts, Mykel had noted that the soil was thin with reddish sand beneath. That explained why he and Third Battalion had seen only scattered flocks of cattle on the grasslands. Farming or heavier grazing would have ruined the grassy plains.

  He turned and looked back over his shoulder at the riders—and the supply wagons that followed the column. Over the three weeks it had taken to ride from Southgate—with rest stops for men and mounts—Mykel had worked in as much training as possible. The two new companies now looked like Cadmians when they rode.

  At the sound of fast-moving hoofs on the road, Mykel turned. He kept riding, waiting as one of the scouts rode swiftly toward the battalion.

  “Sir? Wagons ahead! Carrying something pretty heavy.”

  Ahead in the distance, Mykel saw three heavy wagons, each drawn by six dray horses, and all were heading northward. He could insist that the wagons give way, but heavy as they were, and with the sandy soil beyond the shoulders of the road, there was a good chance that they might get mired or break a wheel. He also didn’t like riding past them in single file or narrow formation.

  Mykel turned in the saddle, looking at Toralt, the duty messenger. “Pass the word. At my command, we’ll ride, fast trot, to the hillock on the right up ahead. Form up in battle formation facing the road. Same company order as now.”

  “Ride to the hillock, fast trot, form up in battle formation, same company order. Yes, sir.” Toralt turned his mount out of formation and headed toward the rear.

  “More practice, sir?” asked Rhystan.

  “Mostly. I doubt that irregulars would use wagons—or even know we were on the way—but you never know when you’re first arriving somewhere.”

  Less than a tenth of a glass later, Toralt rode back and reported. “Sir! All the officers stand ready.”

  “Battalion! Forward!”

  “Sixteenth Company…forward!”

  “Thirteenth Company…”

  Before long, the entire force was formed into a line of battle on the hillock on the west side of the high road.

  “Rifles ready!”

  The command echoed across the battalion.

  The wagons were close enough that Mykel knew they posed no threat, but he wanted the younger Cadmians in particular to get the feel of waiting…and waiting…with rifles ready. He’d seen too many inexperienced troopers fire too soon because they were impatient.

  Slowly, the wagons crept northward on the high road, nearing the battalion. Each wagon carried a driver and a guard with a rifle up front, with four mounted guards in front and two riding behind. While the wagons didn’t creak or sag, the measured pace of the team and the faint crunching of sandy soil that had drifted across the enternastone in places and was being flattened by the heavy iron tires of the wagons were more than enough to tell Mykel that they carried ingots of some sort. The sign on the black-painted side of each wagon was simple: MINZT AND SONS, TEAMSTERS.

  Mykel could sense the unease on the part of the teamsters and even the armed guards, who kept looking back at the Cadmians long after the wagons had passed the formation on the rise overlooking the high road.

  Once Third Battalion was back on the road, Rhystan looked at Mykel. “They didn’t do badly.”

  “No. We’ll see how they do against irregulars—if there are any.”

  The captain gestured out at the grasslands to the east. “Doesn’t look like there’s much here. How do they live?”

  “There’s some dryland nut trees to the south, and there’s a tin mine to the southwest, and a copper mine to the west. They’ve got cattle here as well. Some of them are sent north and butchered in Tempre or shipped downriver to Faitel and Elcien.” He grinned. “That’s what the books and everyone I talked to told me, anyway. They’ve got some clay too, and there’s a china works. Hyalt’s smaller than Dramuria, they say.”

  “Why would they have irregulars out here, then?”

  “There’s always someone who’s not happy with the way things are. Hyalt’s far enough away from places that people think matter that no one pays much attention. If someone starts yelling about the Duarches or the Cadmians in Faitel, how long is it before they get carted away?”

  “A glass, if they’re lucky,” replied Rhystan.

  “No one paid any attention here, not until it was too late.”

  “You think that’s the whole story?”

  Mykel laughed. “It never is. We found that out in Dramur. I just hope what we don’t know isn’t as bad as it was there.”

  “That makes two of us, Majer.”

  For all his explanations to Rhystan, and even with his concerns, Mykel still felt uneasy.

  40

  Dainyl stood at the window of his study, looking out into the early afternoon. The sun poured down from a cloudless silver-green sky, and the faintest breeze of early summer wafted through the partly open window. For the last month, nothing untoward had occurred. No pteridons or skylances were missing. No Myrmidon casualties or accidents. No wild Talents had been reported. Iron Stem remained calm, and the Fourth Cadmian Battalion had managed to contain the handful of ice-wolves that had appeared, although local Iron Valley herders had complained about a handful of dead sheep and cattle. The Third Cadmian Battalion was close to arriving in Hyalt. Neither Shastylt nor Zelyert had tasked him with any new or thankless tasks. Matters were calm. As Submarshal of Myrmidons, Dainyl should have been pleased.

  He was not.

  There were far too many aspects of events that hinted at troubles to come, yet about which Dainyl could do nothing—not without incurring the wrath and displeasure of the marshal, the High Alector of Justice, and the Duarch of Elcien—because there was almost nothing in the way of hard proof about any of his suspicions. The hints were there.

  Some were in the small stack of reports on the corner of his desk. There was the report that Seventh Myrmidon Company had moved to its new compound in Dulka, and another from Seventh Company reporting that Undercaptain Sledaryk had been transferred to Lysia when Undercaptain Hasya had requested a stipend after fifty years of service. Alcyna had promoted Undercaptain Veluara to captain and transferred her to take command of Seventh Company, rather than promoting Undercaptain Klynd to replace the late Majer Faerylt.

  Others were scattered bits of information, like Majer Noryan’s past, the “replaced” report about the pteridons lost to the ancients, the resource diversions by the eastern engineers, and the mysterious deaths associated with its discovery.

  The shadow of a pteridon crossed the outer
courtyard—an incoming dispatch flight, not that there would be anything but routine messages, if recent dispatches were any indication.

  Dainyl was surprised, less than a quarter of a glass later, when the duty messenger rapped on his study door. “A dispatch for you, Submarshal.”

  “Thank you.” Dainyl stood and took the envelope.

  After the messenger departed, he checked it. The Talent-seal was unbroken, and when he opened the envelope, he found that the message inside was brief.

  Submarshal Dainyl—

  At your convenience, since you were deputed to handle the matter, I would like to request your presence in Lyterna to discuss additional developments regarding the ice-wolves and similar predators. These may have a significant impact on Cadmian and Myrmidon operations.

  The signature was that of Asulet, underneath the title of Alector of Lifeforce.

  Dainyl made his way to Shastylt’s study, since the marshal was in, and his presence was never something Dainyl could count upon.

  The marshal did not rise from behind his desk. “You have that worried look, Dainyl. I should say that you look more worried than usual, since you never look unworried anymore.”

  “Isn’t that my task, sir, to worry about the routine matters so that you can concentrate upon the others?” Dainyl extended the envelope. “This just arrived with the dispatches.”

  Shastylt took it, read it quickly, and handed it back. “Is there anything happening now that Dhenyr can’t handle?”

  “No, sir. Everything else is quiet. For now.”

  “You worry too much, Dainyl.” Shastylt chuckled. “Wait to worry until we actually have problems we can address. Just take the duty coach and use the Table this afternoon. Asulet will be there. He never goes anywhere.”

  Behind the marshal’s banter, deep behind, Dainyl could sense more than a little worry. “Does he ever leave Lyterna?”

  “He hasn’t in years, or if he has, no one knows about it. There are sections of Lyterna that no one knows about but him.” There was a brief pause. “Find out what he has to say and then let me know. If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be here in the morning.”