Alector's Choice (4 page)

When Mykel finished
the two vingt walk from concourse platform at the river station to the gates of
Cadmian headquarters, he was perspiring, and glad he’d taken no gear home with
him. He could have taken a carriage for hire from the station, but he’d seen no
point in spending a silver, not on a pleasant day when he did not have to
report until muster on the next morning.

The last quarter
vingt—five hundred yards—before the open stone gates at the end of the
stone-paved avenue was clear of dwellings, just an open hillside between the
northern edge of the less than attractive town of Northa and the walls of the
Cadmian headquarters. The compound was set at the base of the hills that rose
northeast of the river and footed the CoastRange itself, with walls that ran
almost a vingt on each side.

In contrast, the
Myrmidon headquarters compound was far smaller than the Cadmian headquarters
and was situated on the west end of the isle of Elcien itself, facing into the
generally prevailing winds. That made it easier for the pteridons to lift off,
or so Mykel had been told, although he’d never seen one of the blue winged
fliers up close, but only from below as they soared in and out of Elcien, often
casting shadows across those below.

The two rankers on
guard duty stiffened as Mykel walked toward them.

“Captain Mykel…”

“Always back early…”

“Good day,” he said
warmly. “Anything unusual, Cheant?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Mykel smiled,
a cheerful expression that also indicated that he knew none of the rankers
would have told him anything—not out in the open. Cheant’s guilty look
suggested that more than a few things had occurred during Mykel’s furlough,
none likely to be good.

As he crossed the
paved courtyard on the west side of the compound, striding toward the junior
officers’ quarters, he caught sight of another captain hurrying toward him.
“Kuertyl!”

“Back early, I see.”
The younger captain’s eyes did not quite meet Mykel’s level gaze.

“Always.”

“You never carry
anything, either.”

“Not when I visit my
parents. No point in it. I wear the uniform traveling and old clothes while I’m
there.” His eyes fixed on the younger officer. “Cheant was on gate duty. He had
that look. What’s in the wind?”

“No one’s said
anything.”

Mykel cleared his
throat and waited.

“Word is that
something happened in Dramur. No one’s saying anything, but a Myrmidon officer
came in on Novdi, landed his pteridon right beside the headquarters. Swerkyl
had to go find the colonel and Majer Vaclyn. The alector spent a good glass
with the two of them, then another glass or more with the majer. Then he flew
off. Swerkyl says he heard the words Dramur and Dramuria, and Third Battalion.
Then the majer went to his target range and practiced with those throwing
knives of his.”

“That means he wants
to kill someone,” reflected Mykel. “You sure it’s Third Battalion?”

“Swerkyl wasn’t sure,
but it’s got to be us. We’re next on the deployment schedule. Our companies are
the only ones at full strength and ready to deploy.”

“Figures… Anything
else about Dramur?”

“No. Not yet” Kuertyl
added quickly, “Did you hear about Scien? They’re closing the post No one knows
why. The companies there are being reassigned.”

“Should have been
closed years ago. It’s at the end of nowhere. Colder there than at Blackstear
in full winter.” Mykel grinned at the younger captain. “You should be glad.
They can’t send you there when you foul up your next assignment”

“Or you,” riposted
Kuertyl.

“I never foul up.”
Mykel laughed.

“I have to meet with
Majer Vaclyn in half a glass—”

“On end day? Is this
about Dramur?”

“Wish it were. We
didn’t do so well in squad on squad training last week. You’d better watch out
when he comes to you.” Kuertyl turned and hurried toward the headquarters
building.

Mykel frowned. He
wasn’t surprised that Kuertyl hadn’t done that well, but it worried him that
Vaclyn was meeting with officers on end day, especially after practicing with
the throwing knives. That was never a good sign, and it suggested that the
colonel was not only pushing to get the companies ready to leave, but less than
happy with readiness. Dramur? That was all too hot, almost as bad as places
like Sinjin and Soupat.

Mykel walked more
deliberately toward the officers’ quarters.

One of Dainyl’s few
luxuries was taking a carriage from the house to the Myrmidon headquarters on
the west end of Elcien. Lystrana had calculated it, and paying the three
coppers each way was far cheaper than having a personal carriage. A hacker named
Barodyn had taken advantage of Dainyl’s modest self indulgence and waited
outside every working morning.

When Dainyl stepped
out of through the gates of the front courtyard, Barodyn leaned back in his
seat and swung the coach door open. “Good morning, Colonel, sir.”

“Good morning.”
Dainyl offered a smile as he climbed into the coach and closed the door. He
didn’t say another word as the hacker eased the coach away from the mounting
block.

Nor did Barodyn.

After two turns, and
an arc around the public gardens of the Duarch, the coach was headed west on
the Boulevard.

There was only one,
down the middle of the isle from the bridge in the east to the gates at the
Myrmidon compound at the west end of the isle.

Dainyl looked back at
the gardens, with their precisely trimmed hedges and stone paths, with the
fountains, and the topiary of all manner of creatures, including a lifelike
pteridon and a long hedge sculpted into the likeness of two san-doxes and a set
of transport coaches.

A woman—an
alector—and a child walked through the gates of the garden. Dainyl frowned. He
should know them. There weren’t that many children allowed, only a handful
every year, depending on the reports from Lyterna. Still, the woman didn’t look
familiar.

His eyes moved to the
Palace of the Duarch ahead to his left, south of the boulevard, opposite the
Hall of Justice. The golden eternastone glowed in the morning light, and the
two towers were green pointed cylinders that almost melded with the silver
green sky to the west.

Dainyl smiled. Built
on an island of solid stone, Elcien was indeed a marvel—from the perfectly
paved boulevard and streets, the stone dwellings and their tile roofs, the
shops and market squares that held everything produced on Acorus, the docks and
warehouses where vessels from across the world disgorged their goods, and, of
course, the Palace of the Duarch. Even the air smelled fresh, coming from the
south, and pleasantly moist.

Past the center of
Elcien, to the west of the palace, were the trade quarter—on the southwest—and
the residence quarter for those merchants who could afford it. Beyond them was
Dainyl’s destination. The low bluff on the west end of the isle of Elcien that
held the Myrmidon compound was separated from the rest of the city by a
graystone wall four yards high, with but a single set of gates. The gates were
open and unguarded, as were those at all Myrmidon compounds. Because all
alectors had some degree of Talent—if minimal in the case of many rankers,
couriers, and low staff—anyone not belonging would be sensed instantly, and few
indigens or landers wished to take twenty lashes for being in the wrong place.

The hacker reined up
outside the gates. “Colonel Alector, sir?”

As he stepped out,
Dainyl handed over the two coppers, plus an extra copper.

“Thank you, sir.”

As Barodyn turned the
coach for hire back toward the trade quarter, Dainyl walked quickly through the
gates and toward the headquarters building, a square structure no more than
twenty yards on a side and but a single story in height. The sole Myrmidon in
the receiving area was the staff senior squad leader, Zorcylt.

“Good morning,
Colonel.”

“Good morning,
Zorcylt. Is the marshal in yet?”

“No, sir. He and
Captain Ghasylt are on their way back to Iron Stem.”

“Iron Stem? Again?”

“Yes, sir. He left
two messages on your desk. There’s been more trouble there, but he didn’t say
what.”

Dainyl wasn’t looking
forward to the messages. He offered a grin. “You have any ideas?”

“Well, sir… I did
hear something about the coal mines there. That was all.”

“What squad has the
duty?”

“Second, sir.
Undercaptain Yuasylt. All five have reported and stand ready, sir.”

“Are we expecting any
dispatches from the palace for the morning flight?”

“No, sir. The message
banner is white.”

“Do we have a report
on inbound shipping?”

“No, sir. Vorosylt
lifted off almost half a glass ago, but it’s a quartering wind, and maybe a
headwind beyond the straits.”

Dainyl nodded. That
left three fliers—Yuasylt and two others—from the duty squad for any other
dispatches or surveillance work. In many ways, he missed flying, but he didn’t
miss the glass upon glass that he would have been away from Lystrana. “I’ll be
in my study.”

The colonel walked
down the corridor to the doorway just short of the one to the marshal’s spaces.
Once inside his own study, he closed the door. Rather than settle behind his
desk, he picked up the top envelope. The light dusting of Talent across the
seal had not been tampered with. A faint smile crossed his thin lips as he
released the Talent seal and opened the envelope. He began to read.

After a time, he set
the short document on the top of the desk and walked to the window. The flight
stage was empty, but the dispatch rider and pteridon would be there shortly.

He’d expected to read
about Iron Stem and coal mines, but the first message was brief, warning him
that the Duarch’s intelligence sources had reported unrest in Dra-mur, and the
possibility of an actual insurgency. Because the terrain was not optimal for
the Myrmidons and with the unsettled situation in Iron Stem, the marshal had
ordered a Cadmian battalion to begin preparations for deployment to Dramuria.

Dainyl didn’t care
for that—not when the marshal had stated that the unsettled situation in Iron
Stem might be worse. Worse than an insurgency? Worse than the loss of higher
level lifeforce that could entail, directly and indirectly? What was missing
from the message worried him. Did it have to do with the concerns that had cost
Tyanylt his life?

He turned back to the
desk, opened the second envelope, and began to read.

The engineers in
Faitel had gone to Iron Stem in early spring and opened a second coal mine. The
High Alector of Trade in Ludar had arranged for additional malcontents to be
trained as miners and transported to Iron Stem.

Somehow—and the marshal
did not explain how it had happened—the local trade director, a lander, of
course, had failed to make adequate preparations for housing the additional
miners. Rather than admit his failure in obtaining the necessary cut stones or
brick required for the barracks, in late summer he had decided to overcut the
oaks in the area. The local garrison commander, a Cadmian overcaptain, had been
forced to use two companies of mounted rifle to stop the timber harvesting.
Then, someone had placed explosives in the main shaft of the coal mine and
detonated them, shutting down the mine completely, and killing nineteen miners.
The device used showed some considerable knowledge, the kind that could result
in crude cannon.

Dainyl winced. Cannon
and artillery were on the banned lists, not to be mentioned, and an immediate
death sentence for any lander or indigen caught attempting to fabricate them.
The recorders who used the Tables for surveillance continually scanned for
evidence of such efforts, and so far there had been none in years, so far as
Dainyl knew.

The existing stocks
of coal for coking the ironworks at Iron Stem were sufficient only for a
month—one of the reasons why the additional mine was being developed. An
engineering team was being sent from Faitel with the equipment to reopen the
mine, but it was likely to be at least another month before production could
resume.

The overcaptain had
rounded up the miners and requested an Alector of Justice. The High Alector of
Justice had said that a marshal was all they deserved and had dispatched the
marshal, with a guard of four pteridons.

Four pteridons?
Dainyl frowned. Why would anyone do that? Every day the malcontents who were
sentenced to the mines didn’t work added a day to their term. Stone-and-brick
housing was warmer and more comfortable than timber—and the winters in Iron
Stem were cold, if not so cold as those in places like Blackstear and Scien.
Then, mature oaks provided better lumber, especially when they were harvested
according to plan, and not just hacked down for a momentary need. Mature
forests provided far more additional lifeforce than cutting and replanting with
young trees and seedlings.

Didn’t the landers
and indigens understand? Every tree, every additional stock animal, each one
added to the life force and supplied the strength to improve life all across
Corus. He snorted. Perhaps some landers did, but most didn’t, and even fewer
truly cared.

A marshal was
probably more than whoever had blown the shaft deserved.

Still… that a lander
or an indigen had used explosives in such a fashion was disturbing. Equally
disturbing was the marshal’s judgment that Iron Stem was potentially worse than
an insurrection in Dramur.

After several
moments, Dainyl turned back toward the door. He had to check the dispatches
before the duty flier could depart.

Londi morning had
come all too early, Mykel decided, as he stepped into the officers’ mess,
yawning. Although the mess held just a half score of small wooden tables, he
was the only officer there.

“The same as always,
Captain?” asked the steward.

“Yes, please, but
water the hot cider just a touch.” That was so he didn’t burn his throat.

“Yes, sir.”

Mykel took a corner
table, and, shortly, the steward brought him a mug of cider and a platter with
three slices of egg toast, drizzled with molasses syrup, along with two slices
of ham, and an overripe golden apple. On the side was a quarter of a lime.
“Apple’s best I can do, sir.”

“That’s fine. Thank
you.” Mykel cradled the mug in his hands under his chin and let the warm cidery
air rising from tthe mug wreath his face for a moment. After several sips, he
picked up the apple and took a bite. It was mushy. It shouldn’t have been.
Apples were in season.

With a grimace, he
picked up the lime section, squeezed what he could over a section of the apple
where he had taken a bite, then ate apple and lime juice. Then he forced
himself to eat the lime. He took another sip of the cider, and, with relief, a
bite of the egg toast

Dohark had entered
the mess and was headed in his direction, platter in hand. The blocky older
captain slid into the chair across the table from Mykel. “Kuertyl tell you
about Dramur?” He took a bite of egg toast.

“He said something
about it. You think he’s right?”

Dohark, his mouth
full, shrugged, then swallowed before speaking. “He’s not so good in the field,
but he always knows what’s going on in headquarters.”

“What do you know
about Dramur?” asked Mykel.

“Big island, maybe
five hundred vingts long, Got sharp assed mountains smack down the middle, and
it’s hot and dry, except for a wet part on the west side. Hotter than Soupat.
Only place with lots of people is Dramuria, and it’s a port. Oh… and it’s got
bats, some of ‘em bigger than kids. That’s why there’s a port. They send mals
there to mine the bat shit and ship it to Southgate. Put it on a field, thin
like, and it’ll make anything grow.”

“So why do the
Myrmidons want us there?”

“Because they don’t
want to go and deal with a bunch of unhappy mal miners. That’s why.” Dohark
took a long swallow of ale.

Much as Mykel liked
ale, he couldn’t stand the taste of it in the morning. “What is it about
Dramur? Bat shit isn’t that valuable, is it?”

“Maybe the alectors
think it is. They get pretty tight when folks cut down trees they shouldn’t,
things like that. My cousin, he had a swamp on the comer of his place, outside
of Salcer. Decided that he could grow gladbeans there, make a bunch more
silvers. He started to drain and fill, and before you knew it, there was an
alector on his doorstep, telling him to put the swamp back the way it was. He
was lucky—only got five lashes in the square.”

“Five lashes for
draining a swamp? And he had to put cropland back to a swamp?”

“Don’t you remember
your school lessons, Mykel? Swamps and forests are good for the land. Make it more
productive. Don’t see how, but who’s going to argue with an alector?”

Mykel fingered his
chin. What sort of sense did it make to leave a swamp, a place where there were
bugs and snakes, and stagnant water, when you could turn it into a productive
field? Still, Dohark was right. You didn’t argue with an alector.

“First glass after
noon, we’re doing drills against Fifteenth,” Dohark said. “Your boys’ best do
better than last time.”

“We’ll show you a
thing or two.” Mykel grinned.

“Like your backsides
clearing the drill field?” Dohark rose from the mess table.

Mykel laughed,
letting the older captain depart. Then he finished the last of the ham and made
his way from the mess to his study in the headquarters building.

Once there, he looked
at the stack of paper waiting on one side of the wall desk. He could only hope
that it would hold routine seasonal reports. Mykel riffled through the papers,
suppressing a groan. He’d forgotten about the training reports, and with the
afternoon drills, he’d be writing late into the night for the days ahead.

At that moment, there
was a knock on the door. A squad leader, wearing the white braid of the
headquarters’ staff, stood in the doorway.

“Captain Mykel, sir,
Majer Vaclyn requests your presence in his study. At your soonest convenience,
sir.”

“I’ll be right
there.”

Mykel only waited
until the squad leader was away from his door before following him back to the
south end of the building. The majer’s study door was open.

“Have a seat,
Captain.” Majer Vaclyn gestured to the chairs in front of the desk. “Please
close the door behind you.” He was a typical Cadmian officer from pure lander
stock, tall and muscular, blond, with fair skin and light green eyes. From
appearances, except for the too ruddy cheeks, he could have been Mykel’s
cousin. He wasn’t.

“What have you
heard?” Vaclyn leaned back in his chair. On the corner of the desk were an oily
rag and a sharpening stone—recently used on one of the majer’s throwing knives.

“Sir?”

“There are rumors all
over the compound. I’d like to know which ones you’ve heard so that I can set
you straight.”

“The whole
battalion’s being sent to Dramur.” Mykel offered an easygoing smile. “No one
seems to know why.”

“That’s because no
one has been told why, except the colonel. Your story has the basic parts
right. Then, you always do get that right.” Vaclyn gave Mykel a broad smile
that the captain trusted not at all. The majer cleared his throat. “On Septi,
Third Battalion will embark on the Duarches’ Valor. Full field kit, just like
any deployment. The Myrmidons expect that our mission will take from two
seasons to a full year.”

Mykel waited to see
if Vaclyn would actually tell him the mission.

“A significant number
of malcontents who have been serving terms as bat-dung miners have managed to
escape. There are only two companies of Cadmian foot stationed at the garrison
there, and they provide security for the mine…”

Prison guards, in
effect, reflected Mykel.

“… Our task is
twofold. First, we are to provide protection against the raids, both for the
dutiful miners and for the local inhabitants. Second, we are to bring the
fugitives to justice.” Vaclyn paused, then asked, “Do you have any questions,
Captain?”

While Vaclyn’s tone
was perfunctory, as if he didn’t want questions, Mykel replied. “Yes, sir. What
sort of weapons do these fugitives have? Do they have mounts? Are any of the
locals supplying them?”

“We have not been
given such details. Doubtless, we will be briefed in the next few days. Any
shortages in your company’s supplies, mounts, or authorized gear should be
authenticated and reported by noon tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Mykel
offered a curious and open smile. “Sir… if I might ask, what is it like,
talking to a Myrmidon colonel?”

“He was very direct,
and very brief. They always have been when they’ve talked to me. And, Captain,”
added Vaclyn, rising as he spoke, “this afternoon’s drills will be the last
before we embark. I trust I’ll see some improvement.” After the briefest pause,
he added, “Did you have a good furlough?”

“Yes, sir. It was good
to see my family.” Rising from the chair, Mykel offered a pleasant smile.
Vaclyn’s question had been little more than perfunctory, but he had asked.

Mykel nodded in
respect, then left the majer’s study, closing the door behind him. The majer’s
response to his question about the alector puzzled him. Kuertyl had suggested
several long meetings, and the majer had said the meeting was short. Vaclyn had
lied to Mykel before, but this time he had felt like he was telling the
truth—and so had

Kuertyl. Mykel had to
wonder whom he was misreading. He hurried toward his study.

He kept walking,
quickly, thinking. He and the squad leaders would have to audit all the
equipment again, just to make sure nothing had disappeared in his absence. And
then he’d have to finish all the reports after that.