Alector's Choice (12 page)

Dainyl wasn’t looking
forward to meeting with the Cadmian battalion commander, not in dealing with
such an unsettled situation. How he handled the situation would be evaluated by
both the marshal and the High Alec-tor of Justice, and his own future in the
Myrmidons was under consideration. It had to be. Otherwise, after the
Submarshal’s untimely death, he should have been promoted or moved out, but
neither had occurred.

He also didn’t feel
it was wise to avoid the majer.

At the eighth glass
on Tridi morning he went to find Majer Vaclyn. It would have been simpler for
Dainyl to have taken over Majer Herryf’s study. Certainly, as the senior
officer present, and as a Myrmidon, he had that authority, but doing so would
have tacitly stated he was in command of all operations in Dramur, effectively
undermining his status as an observer. That would be all too obvious to the
marshal and the Highest. Dainyl had to remain an observer—unless and until
matters deteriorated badly. Despite the lack of evidence of such an incipient
deterioration, Dainyl had few doubts that it would happen. He just didn’t know
the particular path catastrophe would take, but, according to the Views of the
Highest, it would occur, since both majers were steers seeking power beyond
their ability. That was true of alectors as well.

He found Majer Vaclyn
in a small study at one end of the barracks on the east end of the compound, a
space barely three yards by four with little more than a desk and several
chairs. Foot chests were stacked against one wall.

The ruddy-faced majer
stood immediately as he caught sight of the Myrmidon uniform and the colonel’s
stars.

“Majer Vaclyn.”
Dainyl smiled politely.

“Colonel.” Vaclyn’s
voice was measured. “What brings you to Dramuria? I understood that the
operation here was a Cadmian effort, and one not involving the Myrmidons.”

Dainyl could sense a
combination of anger and consternation, but he continued to maintain a pleasant
expression as he replied, “You are absolutely correct. It is a Cadmian
operation. Because the marshal had to rely upon reports, he did decide to send
an observer, to make sure that there were not events and situations that had
been misrepresented.”

“Misrepresented? The
matter seems simple enough. The battalion has been deployed here to deal with a
possible rebellion, or some other form of uprising.”

“That is true,”
replied Dainyl. “Yet Majer Herryf cannot explain who these rebels are and where
they might be, only that an excessive number of prisoners at the mine are
escaping.”

“If that is the case,
Colonel, why are we here? Escaping prisoners do not make a rebellion.”

“You may well be
right, Majer. That is why we are both here. If there is no rebellion, you and
your men will be able to spend the fall and winter in a warmer locale, and I
will be able to report to the marshal that Majer Herryf was excessively
worried.” There was something about the majer, something… almost
Talent-connected, yet the majer had no Talent. Dainyl would have to observe
that as well.

“You’re suggesting
that there is a problem?” asked Vaclyn.

“I am suggesting
nothing,” Dainyl pointed out. “I have been here only a few days longer than you
have. Majer Herryf has been here much longer.”

Vaclyn frowned, then
spoke. “Colonel… you are a Myrmidon, and some of your fliers were seen
overflying the hills north of the mines. Is there any information that you can
share with us?” Vaclyn’s voice was polite, but there was still anger behind it,
if more subdued.

“So far, Majer,
information has been hard to come by. What we have discovered is that an
unknown number of Cadmian issue rifles have reached the rebel miners, and that
other goods have been smuggled into Dramur. The smugglers have used the cove on
the eastern shore some twenty-five vingts north of here, and whatever those
goods happened to be, they were transported westward along a narrow path that
leads toward the area north of the mine where there may be a number of escaped
miners who are armed. So far, they have not attacked any Cadmian units. The
plantation growers to the north have been raided, but apparently for food, and
not in large numbers.”

“Sounds more like
Majer Herryf wants us to nip something in the bud,” speculated Vaclyn. “Might not
be so bad as if we’d been later.” He looked directly at Dainyl again. “Is there
anything you need from us?”

“Not at the moment. I
just stopped to pay my respects and to let you know why I was here.” Dainyl
offered a polite smile. “I will let you know of anything else that might prove
helpful.”

As Dainyl left the
study, he caught a few fragments of the words exchanged by the rankers in the
outer corridor.

“… that’s a Myrmidon
colonel…”

“… trouble for the
majer…”

“… makes enough for
himself…”

Dainyl concealed an
internal wince at the last words. The last thing anyone needed in Dramur was a
Cadmian officer prone to mistakes—and what he had overheard suggested he was
saddled with two. He just hoped that the ranker was more disgruntled than
accurate.

On Quattri, just
after dawn, Mykel was holding a mug of ale, knowing he had to drink something.
He’d had the choice of wine, boiled water, or ale. He had taken the ale, and
wondered if he shouldn’t have chosen water, or even the cheap wine. Before him
was a platter of fried fish and fried apple bananas. He wasn’t certain either
qualified as breakfast.

“There he is! Always
early to eat!” Dohark’s voice carried through the small stone-walled mess.

Mykel looked up.
Dohark and Kuertyl were headed for the table he’d staked out in the corner,
both with platters and mugs in their hands. They sat down across from him.

“You’re just looking
at the food?” asked Dohark.

“I’m not sure it is
food,” replied Mykel dryly. “Not for breakfast.”

“Don’t want to go
hungry now,” said the older captain.

“I’ll eat it.” Mykel
would eat what was available. He just didn’t have to like it.

“What’s your
schedule?” asked Dohark.

“Fifteenth is moving
north tomorrow, a good day’s ride. Could be longer. We get to look at a trail
that the rebels are using. What about you?”

“Like you, tomorrow.
We’re going to squat around some cove, hope that some smugglers show up with
contraband. At least, it ought to be cool, right off the ocean.” Dohark turned
to the fresh-faced Kuertyl. “What about Thirteenth?”

“We’re supposed to
patrol the road from the plantations in the west.” Kuertyl shrugged, then took
a sip of the ale. “It’s not bad. The ale, I mean.”

Mykel had already
taken a swallow. He’d had worse, but not for breakfast.

“You hear that a
Myrmidon colonel came to see the ma-jer yesterday?” asked Kuertyl.

“Any idea why?” asked
Dohark.

“Word is that the
colonel is just here watching,” replied the young captain.

“Vaclyn needs
watching. Always has.” Dohark laughed and turned to Mykel. “You remember that
business east of Klamat—”

“That’s over,” Mykel
said easily. He didn’t want to remember it. Vaclyn had wanted a frontal charge
by Mykel’s whole company on a handful of Reillies dug in behind a timber
barricade. Mykel had pretended not to have heard the order and taken a squad
over a rise and started firing from the side. The Reillies had surrendered
within moments. Even after that, the colonel had left the majer in command of
the battalion, but Mykel had figured that was because the majer had managed to
hide the fact that he’d given a stupid order. What Mykel didn’t understand was
how the majer kept getting away with less than brilliant decisions—or was it
just that his captains and senior squad leaders bailed him out? And no one
really cared how the task got done, just so long as it did without too many
casualties?

‘True enough, and
it’s not like we can do anything…“

Mykel looked hard at
Dohark, and the older captain stopped.

“Get carried away
sometimes,” Dohark said.

“You were saying?”
prompted Kuertyl, who hadn’t known about the incident because he’d been an
undercap-tain with the Second Battalion at the time.

“Old history,” said
Mykel. “Very old—”

“All history’s old,”
interrupted Heransyr, the captain in command of Seventeenth Company, a smallish
officer, with deep-set hazel eyes, whose uniforms never seemed to show a
crease. “That’s why it’s history. Mind if I join you?”

“Please do,”
suggested Mykel, before looking back at Kuertyl. “What else can you tell us
about the colonel?”

“Colonel?” asked
Heransyr.

“The Myrmidon colonel
who’s here,” explained Mykel. “What about him, Kuertyl?”

Kuertyl glanced at
Dohark, who ignored the look, then finally spoke. “He’s big, like all the
alectors. One of the locals told me he’d been out flying all around the
mountains, even in the storms a couple days back. They said one of the rebels
took a shot at him when he was out riding, and the bullet bounced off him, and
he rode out and caught the rebel without even using a weapon. He just looked at
the fellow, and he dropped over dead.”

“I’m sure he did,”
replied Dohark. “Just dropped over dead because someone looked at him. They got
lances that turn people into torches, but I never heard of someone dropping
dead without a weapon being used.”

“With alectors, you
never know,” suggested Heransyr. “They are alectors.”

Dohark looked at
Mykel. Mykel smothered a smile at Heransyr’s knowing tone.

Kuertyl finished
taking a long pull of ale before answering. “Anyway… that’s what one of the
squad leaders said. He was there. The colonel’s been meeting with the mine
director, and with that Majer Herryf, and with important folks in the town.”

“Frig…” muttered
Dohark.

Kuertyl turned to the
older captain.

“Look, Kuertyl,”
Dohark said slowly. “He’s a Myrmidon colonel. That’s means he outranks every
Cadmian officer. There probably aren’t five Myrmidons that outrank him. He’s
down here talking to everyone? Dramur’s a nothing place, except for bat shit.
So why are we here? Why is he here? Something stinks, and it’s not just bat
shit.”

“Something they don’t
want a lot of people to know about,” suggested Mykel. “We’re here in the normal
rotation, and we don’t have any Myrmidons around.” He gave a crooked grin. “Not
officially. Just a couple to ferry the colonel around. Except that they’re
checking out the mountains and the mine from the air?”

“Oh,” said Kuertyl.

Even Heransyr’s
knowing smile faded.

“So don’t think this
is just a set of routine patrols,” added Dohark. “You could get real familiar
with unfamiliar dirt here, and that merchant’s daughter in Faitel’d have to
find another handsome captain.”

Kuertyl flushed, ever
so slightly.

“It might not be that
bad,” said Mykel, “but until we know that, better be really careful.”

Dohark rose. “I think
it’s time for an unannounced gear inspection.”

Mykel smiled. “Not a
bad idea. I’ll let you start.” The word would get around, and then he’d follow
up with Fifteenth Company.

Beginning on Sexdi,
Mykel and Fifteenth Company spent four days under a bright sun that was more
like summer than fall, riding westward along the stream valley that held a
trail supposedly used by smugglers. The only way to see what was on the trail
was to ride it, and Ma-jer Vaclyn had chosen Fifteenth Company for that duty.
After battling the thorny brush olives, the heat, and the damp, they found no
recent traces of smugglers.

Then, after they
completed a last sweep of the valley on Decdi, the majer ordered them back to
the Cadmian com-pound, where they had Londi for some recuperation. On Duadi,
they rode north thirty vingts to patrol a twenty-vingt section of road—ten
vingts on each side of a small town scarcely larger than a hamlet called
Enstyla. The road, in a winding fashion, eventually made its way south to
Dramuria.

The company was
housed in an empty barn that had once been used for cattle—until the losses
from the nightwasps had made it far too unprofitable for the grower to
continue. Now he was getting a few silvers for the use of the barn and well.

“This town is the one
where the growers around it have been complaining about raids,” Majer Vaclyn
had told Mykel. “See what you can do, either to find out if they’ve really been
raided, or to stop the raids. If you can’t capture the raiders, shoot them. But
make sure that they’re raiders and not locals.”

On Tridi, just before
midmorning, Mykel rode northward at the head of fifth squad, along a part of
the road that ran through grassland that showed as much clay as grass. As on
the previous days, the sky was mostly clear, with a hint of clouds building
over the peaks to the west. No animals were grazing in the nearby fields, and
probably had not in a while, since the scattered tufts and clumps of grass were
nearly calf high. The fields were not fenced, and it had been a good vingt
since the squad had passed a cot.

Mykel alternated
riding with the squads, since each squad was handling a different section of
the road. As he shifted his weight in the saddle, he had to wonder how
patrolling roads would stop raids. The raiders weren’t exactly going to ride up
and down the roads announcing their intentions, and those who did use the roads
would look like anyone else who belonged there.

Still… Mykel was a
Cadmian officer, and there were times when he just had to follow orders and try
not to make a stupid mistake doing so.

Ahead, coming up a
long gentle rise from lowlands that held trees, there was a wagon creaking
toward fifth squad, an old wagon that seemed to sag in the middle, pulled by a
single swaybacked horse.

Mykel moved the
chestnut to the head of the squad and eased out in front of the squad, just
slightly, moving toward the wagon and the two men on the bench seat. The driver
flicked the reins, pulled them back, and the wagon slowed to a crawl, then a
stop.

Both men looked at
Mykel, and the squad behind him, but neither spoke.

Mykel concentrated on
the teamster, after a quick study of the younger man seated beside the bearded
driver. “Have you seen any folks up here that don’t belong here?”

The teamster kept the
reins in his right hand, but tilted back the tattered and wide-brimmed woven
frond hat with his left. Then he spat to the side of the wagon away from Mykel.
“You’re the first folks we’ve seen since we set out.”

“Not just this
morning. Over the past few days.”

“You Cadmians are
looking in the wrong place. All those escaped prisoners are in the hills north
of the mine.” The man’s words were even, with a touch of anger behind them, but
they didn’t feel right to the captain:

“I don’t recall
mentioning escaped prisoners,” Mykel said politely. “We also know that someone
has been smuggling as well. You might have seen them.”

“Told you. We haven’t
seen anyone.”

“We’d heard reports
that some of the escapees might have moved eastward… might be lifting a little
food here and there.” Mykel looked squarely at the teamster.

“Well… Captain. Now,
I can’t say that there might not have been a few things missing here and there,
but how could anyone tell whether it’s from shamblers sneaking up here or a
loose prisoner or two?”

“I imagine you
couldn’t,” replied Mykel with an easy smile. “If you do find out, we’d like to
know. Either way, you’d be able to keep more of what you grow if we could catch
them.”

“On the roads?” The
teamster laughed. “Not sow-eared likely!”

Mykel eased the
chestnut back and gestured for the squad to let the wagon pass. As the wagon
rolled southward, Mykel strained to hear what the younger man was saying.

“… not like that
banty rooster yesterday…”

“… got to watch ‘em
all… just ’cause he talks nice, don’t mean nothing…”

Mykel had to wonder
whom the teamster had run into the day before. Dohark certainly wasn’t banty.
It could have been Kuertyl—or maybe Heransyr, with his elevated notion of his
own importance.

What was certain was
that the patrols were going to be long, and hot, and that they were going to
upset some people. Yet, if he didn’t patrol, Majer Vaclyn and the Myrmidon
colonel would be unhappy with a certain captain.

Mykel turned the
chestnut back northward.