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Cadmian's Choice

Page 34

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.


  “You’re standing on the edge of the long translation, Submarshal.”

  Dainyl was well aware of that.

  “By the way, you did that well, for a first time.”

  “I just followed your directions.”

  “You realize one other thing, don’t you?”

  Dainyl had no idea what she meant.

  “You know as much as most new recorders.” She laughed ironically. “My father might coopt you to become recorder in Lyterna, should anything happen to Myenfel.”

  In spite of himself, Dainyl winced. The thought of spending his life behind and under all that stone was appalling.

  Sulerya laughed. “I was afraid you had no fears at all.”

  Dainyl didn’t want to think about it. “Why were you so willing to teach me?”

  “Because you have enough Talent to destroy a Table if you went at it wrong, and you’re stubborn enough to do whatever you have to. This way…there might be a Table left when you’re done dealing with Rhelyn.”

  “That’s if we have to, and if I’m successful.”

  “If you have to, if you’re not successful, it won’t matter,” she replied quietly.

  There was definitely more than one meaning to those words.

  “I need to get back to Elcien.” He stretched.

  “You probably do.”

  Dainyl stepped onto the Table.

  The purple-black mist below was all around him, but he focused on the brilliant white of Elcien. He sensed a long green flash, and felt as though he were being observed, somehow, even though the translation felt near-instantaneous. The chill silver-white veil vanished, and…

  …he stood once more in Elcien.

  “That was quick,” observed Chastyl. “I didn’t even sense you.”

  “I’d guess some translations take less time.” Dainyl shrugged and stepped off the Table.

  “They do vary,” replied the recorder.

  Dainyl would have liked to have investigated the Table in light of his newfound knowledge, but was not about to with Chastyl standing there.

  Instead, he nodded politely and departed. Thankfully, Zelyert was not in the lower chambers of the Hall of Justice, or, if he happened to be, he did not seek out Dainyl. For that, Dainyl was grateful. He had no intention of revealing what he had learned from Sulerya. But then, except in a general sense, he had yet to determine how he could best apply that knowledge, because, if he merely translated into Hyalt and froze the Table, he would be trapped there amid scores, if not hundreds, of alectors not exactly friendly to him.

  Outside, the haze had lifted, and the late midmorning sun beat down on Dainyl. He needed to get back to headquarters and try to figure out some way to neutralize Rhelyn. From what he’d seen, he didn’t have that much time.

  53

  Late on Tridi afternoon, under a sky that had gotten progressively more hazy over the course of the day, Mykel rode into Hyalt, south past the square and then to Troral’s factorage, where he reined up, dismounted, and tied the roan to one of the posts in front of the narrow porch.

  The factor stepped out of the doorway just as Mykel took the first step onto the porch, wiping his hands on a clean canvas apron.

  “What did you find, Majer?”

  “There were signs of brigands,” Mykel replied, “but someone or something must have scared them off. They left without taking anything, but some of the livestock wandered off. Gerolt wasn’t happy about that, but it didn’t appear that whoever attacked them went after the goats and sheep. There were also traces of some of the strange creatures.”

  “Aye. Gerolt said he feared such.” Troral paused, then looked directly at the majer. “Can you do aught about them?”

  “We did. We destroyed them, but that won’t bring back Gerolt’s sister. We stopped on the way back and told him we’d killed them. I can’t say that there won’t be more, because I don’t know where they’re coming from.”

  “That’s something none know.” The factor shrugged, tiredly. “Folks have decided you’re here for the better. There are coins, and you keep your men under control.”

  Mykel understood what Troral wasn’t saying—that all of that could change. “We do what we can. How long Third Battalion will be here isn’t up to me. The two Hyalt companies and the compound will stay, and that will mean a few more coins for everyone, what with food and forage.” He grinned. “And they will need blankets.”

  “It will help.” The factor’s voice was almost glum.

  Mykel wondered if the man ever sounded cheerful. But then, would anyone, living in Hyalt? “Were there any of the creatures prowling around before last summer?”

  The factor shook his head. “None that anyone talked about. I couldn’t say that there might not have been one or two. Every so often someone did disappear, but who could tell whether it was brigands or if they just walked off or took a coach and didn’t tell anyone? They weren’t the kind to be missed, if you understand what I mean.”

  Mykel did.

  “How long before the compound is finished, do you think, Majer?”

  Mykel almost smiled. Troral was really asking how long the town would be getting the coins that flowed in with the building. “I’d judge another three or four weeks to finish the walls. Longer than that for the stables. The crafters are just starting on the inside of the barracks, and nothing’s been done on the headquarters building itself.” The order of building had been Mykel’s choice. “So…it could be harvest, or later.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to rush things so the work’s not done right, but I don’t want it to drag on, either.”

  “Till harvest or later…” Troral nodded solemnly. “Not too bad.” He looked at Mykel with an expression just short of a smile. “You sure that you don’t need more than blankets, Majer?”

  “I didn’t say we did or we didn’t.” Mykel grinned in response. “I have to see what we can afford on the draw I’ve been assigned. Building comes first.”

  “I can see that. Poeldyn says you’re a careful man.”

  “As careful as I can be.” Being careful did tilt the odds, but sometimes it wasn’t enough, as Mykel well knew.

  “All any of us can do.” Troral glanced westward along the short street that led to the high road, then back at Mykel.

  “There’s truth to that. Have you heard anything else? Any other reports of brigands, insurgents or strange creatures?”

  “You’re asking me? Thought that was your job.”

  “The more eyes that are looking, the better we can do that job,” Mykel pointed out.

  “Suppose that’s so.” Troral shook his head. “No one’s told me anything except Gerolt.”

  “If you do hear anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know.”

  “Guess I can do that.”

  Mykel smiled politely. “Thank you. I need to be getting back to the garrison. I just wanted to let you know what we found.”

  Troral nodded.

  After a moment of silence, Mykel stepped down from the porch, untied the roan and remounted. He turned the gelding back north, toward the old garrison.

  He still had to write his report about the day’s events, and that meant two reports—one to Colonel Herolt and one that would go directly to Submarshal Dainyl. The second report wasn’t being careful at all, but Mykel had a definite feeling that being careful wasn’t going to be enough, and he’d learned long before not to ignore feelings that strong.

  The more he learned, the more worried he was getting. Supposedly, insurgents had killed the local garrison, but the regional alector and his staff had cleaned up the garrison—or covered up what had happened long before Mykel had arrived—and no one had mentioned that one squad leader with talents similar to Mykel’s had not been shot, but burned. Had the unfortunate Borcal discovered the alector troops and been able to escape without their being able to identify who he was so that the entire garrison had to be eliminated? Or had he discovered something else?

  But if that were the case,
why had the marshal of Myrmidons sent the Cadmians back to build a new garrison? And if the alector troops near the regional alector’s compound weren’t known to the Myrmidons, to whom did they belong?

  Mykel could only hope to avoid the local alectors and trust his messages reached Submarshal Dainyl…and more important, that the submarshal was not involved with what was happening in Hyalt.

  For the moment, what else could he do, except be very careful?

  54

  Dainyl walked down the corridor in Myrmidon headquarters, glad that he wasn’t outside in the early summer downpour that drenched Elcien. Since it was only just past mid-morning, there was a good chance it would pass before he was off duty and could head home to Lystrana. After several days of fretting and plotting, he had a plan for Hyalt. Whether it would work was another question. Whether he would survive it was even more problematical, but even Lystrana had not been able to help him come up with something better.

  Ahead of him at the end of the corridor, Shastylt stepped out of the doorway to his study. “Submarshal?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A moment, if you will.”

  Dainyl followed the marshal into his superior’s study, closing the door behind him. He stood and waited, sensing Shastylt’s concern, but knowing that it was not directed at him.

  The senior Myrmidon remained standing. He tilted his head, then frowned, before clearing his throat and speaking. “The Highest has just received a report that a wild lander Talent has appeared—or reappeared—north of Hyalt. This Talent appears strong enough to have killed one of the junior members of the Table staff there. The alectors there feel that the presence of the Cadmians and their own abilities will suffice, but they did wish to inform us.”

  Dainyl nodded slowly. Clearly, the recorder did not want Myrmidons in Hyalt. After his view of Hyalt from Sulerya’s Table, incomplete as it had been, he had no doubts as to why. “How do they know that it is a lander wild Talent, as opposed to a wild translation?”

  “Rhelyn did not bother to convey that information.” Shastylt’s voice was dry. “Doubtless, he felt we did not need to know that.”

  “He doesn’t want Myrmidons down there. But if he doesn’t, why report that at all?”

  “Why indeed?”

  Dainyl almost swallowed as the thought struck him, but he managed a smile instead. “Because he doesn’t want us to actually see what this wild Talent is. Or find out from the Cadmians there exactly how many there have been?”

  “Those are the most likely probabilities. He could be trying to delay any reaction on our part. Or he could be trying the exact opposite, drawing us into investigating and setting some sort of trap.”

  Dainyl could see both as possibilities.

  “How is your plan for Hyalt coming?” asked Shastylt.

  “I can set it into motion any time. Do you want me—”

  “No. Not yet. If Rhelyn and Brekylt are setting a trap, they’ll expect an immediate reaction. If they’re stalling, we can still give them a little time.”

  Dainyl had to admit that Shastylt’s analysis made sense, but only if they didn’t wait too long, and he had no idea just how long too long might be. Then, he might come up with something better, if he had more time—although he had his doubts about that.

  “Have you told anyone about it?”

  “No, sir. There are a few might suspect I am planning something, because I needed information, but I have not provided information that would indicate much.” Dainyl hoped that was true, and doubted that Sulerya would reveal even what he had found out from her. “The fewer who know, the less risk to the Myrmidons involved.”

  “You’re still a field commander at heart, Dainyl.” Shastylt laughed. “Don’t let that color your judgment too much. Sometimes, casualties are necessary.”

  “Yes, sir, but I prefer that they occur to the other side.”

  “That’s fine…if we can determine exactly who is the other side.”

  “It appears that Rhelyn supports Brekylt. That would suggest he’s not exactly one to trust, especially now.”

  “He never has been. His allegiance is to Duarch Samist. Such as his allegiance is.”

  Dainyl doubted that many of the senior alectors had firm allegiances, not after what he had been learning. Instead of replying, he merely nodded.

  “Have you heard about any more appearances of the ancients?”

  “No, sir. But…I only heard of those I reported when I visited various locales. It’s not something that anyone reports.”

  “There’s a great deal that no one reports. That is why we must act with caution.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll let you know when you need to put your plan for Hyalt into action. It won’t be for several days, if not longer.” The marshal glanced toward the window. “Rain or no rain, the Highest and I have to brief the other high alectors and Duarch Khelaryt.”

  “The best of fortune, sir.”

  “That would be useful.” Shastylt paused. “Are all the preparations made for the administration of justice on Quinti?”

  “The mace and garments are ready, and fourth squad will handle the prisoner.”

  “Good.” Shastylt half-turned, signifying that the meeting was over.

  Dainyl stepped out of the study, closing it behind him. He disliked administering justice, even if the condemned alector had murdered an indigen without cause.

  As he walked back to his own study, he also considered Shastylt’s words about casualties. They made a sort of sense, but there weren’t that many alectors on Acorus, not so many that large numbers of casualties were that good an idea, at least not in Dainyl’s judgment. And too many casualties among landers and indigens just reduced the total lifeforce of Acorus, which wasn’t exactly desirable either, not when the Duarch wanted more lifeforce. More important personally, he really did not wish to be one of those casualties. That was another reason why he’d quietly requisitioned two more lightcutter sidearms—for “operational purposes.”

  55

  Mykel looked up through the darkness at the ancient ceiling. His quarters were a small room in the corner of the garrison from which the doors and windows had vanished, as had all doors and windows, doubtless looted after the slaughter of the garrison. Only the intermittent hint of a night breeze occasionally wafted over him.

  Somewhere beyond his vision, somewhere out in the darkness, he could sense shimmering amber-green, and this time he was certain he was not dreaming about the beckoning nature of that sense. He shifted his weight on his bedroll, feeling what seemed to be every grain of sand under the makeshift pallet. The back of his neck and his shoulders were damp, and a thin film of sweat covered his forehead. He wished that he could have sent off the report to the submarshal, but it was still two days before the sandox coach made its next appearance in Hyalt, and the coach would be far faster than any messenger he could send.

  He finally sat up on the bedroll and glanced toward his uniform, hung on two makeshift pegs on the wall. A definite glow emanated from his belt—from the concealed slit that held the dagger of the ancients. Yet it was not a glow that any other Cadmian would have seen. That he also knew.

  Should he follow the summons?

  Slowly, he got to his feet and pulled on his uniform and then his boots. He’d seen enough in Dramur to know that, if the ancients wanted him dead, they didn’t have to entice him. Besides, he had the feeling that he wasn’t going to get much uninterrupted sleep until he went out to see what was happening. It could be just his imagination.

  He checked his rifle, assuring himself that the magazine was full, and then strapped on the extra ammunition belt that he’d carried for years and seldom worn. He’d almost left it behind, trying to persuade himself that majers had no business carrying extra ammunition, but, in the end, he’d brought it.

  He moved through the dimness, still surprised at the clarity of his vision in the darkness, but glad to have that acuity. Mykel could see the guard by the gat
e from well inside the courtyard. There were also two other wall guards, but they were stationed at the rear corners. He struggled to recall the ranker’s name before finally coming up with it.

  “Vaetyr…Majer Mykel here.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s me.” Mykel moved slowly forward, his rifle held with the barrel low.

  “Ah…what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m going out. I just didn’t want to alarm you.” Mykel laughed softly. “Or get shot when I return. I don’t think I’ll be long. I’m going up the hillside to take a look at things when people usually don’t.” That was true enough, if slightly misleading.

  “Yes, sir.” Vaetyr sounded more than a little unsure.

  “Just keep alert. I shouldn’t be that long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mykel stepped out through the gate posts. He’d seen no reason to spend time replacing the gates when the old garrison was indefensible against a large force and when an attack by anything else was unlikely. He did circle well to the north because he wanted to stay out of view and earshot of the guard on the northwest rear corner post.

  Once he was a good fifty yards north of the north wall, he stopped and looked back at the town. It was dark, without a single lamp or torch lit. Then he turned and studied the hillside to the west. Perhaps two hundred yards up the slope, on the broken redstone that formed an ill-defined hillcrest, was a glow—amber-green.

  Mykel took a deep breath and resumed walking, picking his way carefully around the low scrub and the occasional juniper, his eyes, ears, and senses alert for any sounds or indication of brigands or other less than savory possibilities, such as the giant cats. The only sounds were those of insects, the occasional call of a brush owl, and the muted crunching of his own boots on the sandy soil.

  As he walked, he wondered why no one had built higher on the hillside. The garrison could have been defended far more easily. There was no sign of any other structure. Hadn’t Poeldyn started to say something about it?

  He kept moving until he neared the small jumble of rocks that marked the hillcrest. While he neither sensed nor saw nor heard anyone or anything, he didn’t like the idea of going farther. He stopped, looking around. The glow had been where he stood—or somewhere close.

 

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