Alector's Choice (43 page)

On Duadi, Mykel had
sent out the scouts but given the rest of Fifteenth Company a day of badly
needed and well-deserved rest. Then he had headed off to see Dohark.

The overcaptain was
standing in the study that wasn’t his, rather than pacing, and he still had
dark circles under his eyes. “You might as well come in, Mykel.”

Mykel closed the
study door behind him.

Dohark sat behind the
desk and waited for Mykel to seat himself. He did not speak.

“What have you
heard?” asked the captain.

“I’ve heard that I
have a captain who’s managed to slaughter between one and three entire
companies of rebels, and who has probably shot half of them himself.”

While Mykel felt he’d
shot and killed all too many rebels, the number couldn’t have been that high.
“I’ve shot a few. Most rankers in Fifteenth Company have.”

“How long can you
keep it up?” From his tone of voice, Dohark might have been asking about what
was being served in the officers’ mess.

“For as long as they
don’t know how to use scouts and don’t trust each other.” Mykel paused. “Is
there any word on when the colonel will return back? Or on reinforcements?”

Dohark shook his
head.

“Do you think that
we’ve been left here to rot on the vine, sir?”

“I don’t think so. I
don’t have any delusions about the warmth of the Myrmidons and the alectors,
but I can’t see any benefit to them jn abandoning us.” A wry smile appeared.
“Waiting until we’re in great difficulty before pulling us out… I can see that
as a way of reminding everyone of our dependence on the power of the alectors.”

Mykel could see that
as well. He just didn’t like the implications for Third Battalion—especially
for Fifteenth Company.

“What new idea do you
have for keeping us less dependent on them?” asked Dohark.

“Can you get me
several barrels of gunpowder?” asked Mykel. “And a length of good fuse, and two
or three kegs of nails? Big nails.”

Dohark looked across
the desk at the captain. “How are you going to manage that, without blowing up
your own company? What happens when the locals decide to reciprocate? Or the
Myrmidons show up again? They’re not exactly fond of large explosive devices.”

“I’ve heard words
about that, but I’ve never seen anything.”

“You won’t. It’s not
written anywhere. I was a ranker for longer than most officers,” Dohark said.
“I’d been with Ninth Company a year, maybe two, when we were sent east to deal
with a bunch of Squawts in the hills around Dekhron. They’d built a redoubt on
a hilltop, walls a good three yards thick, and at least four high. Had a well
or a spring there, and enough food for years. Stone roof as well. Firelances
didn’t do any good.”

Mykel nodded. Solid
stone would stop a skylance.

“We had a captain.
Bright man. You remind me of him. He didn’t like us getting picked off one at a
time. He suggested that maybe we ought to leave the Squawts alone. Majer Bryten
said no—we had orders to take the place, even if it meant killing half the
battalion. He was like Majer Vaclyn. The captain did pretty much what you were
thinking about. Did it himself. Sneaked up the hill on the darkest night and
climbed up the stones where the Squawts couldn’t see him. He lowered the barrel
of powder somewhere, lit the fuse, and made off. Blew a big hole in the
redoubt. We attacked, and the Squawts surrendered.”

“What he did worked,”
Mykel said. “Then what happened?”

“He was recalled to
Elcien. Told to ride there immediately the next morning. He never made it. One
of the Myrmidons thought he was a Squawt—fried him to a cinder. Terrible
mistake.” Dohark paused. “The word is that anytime someone starts using
gunpowder for anything besides rifles, there’s a terrible mistake.”

Mykel could not only
sense the truth of Dohark’s words, but the concern behind them. He also
realized he’d never heard or seen gunpowder used for anything except rifles or
work in the mines. “I’d better think of something else.”

“I worry about you,
Mykel. All you’ve been doing is thinking of ways to kill people.”

“Isn’t that what we
were sent here to do?” Mykel heard the tiredness in his own voice.

“You seem to like
it.”

Mykel could feel his
face stiffen. “Sir, I don’t like it. I never have. I’m getting good at it, but
that’s only because the choices don’t seem to be very great. If Fifteenth
Company can’t strike first and harder, then Third Battalion loses more men.”

“Frigging tough
problem, isn’t it?” Dohark laughed, a sound both harsh and soft. “Do you have
any other ideas?”

“I’ll have to think
about them, after the scouts get back.”

“Maybe the lady
seltyr can give you some ideas. She seems to talk to you. She won’t say a word
to me, or Majer Herryf. She wouldn’t even say anything to Colonel Dainyl. Do
you know why she talks to you?”

“No,” admitted Mykel.
“She doesn’t say much. I’m fortunate if I can get her to say more than a few
sentences.”

“That’s more than
she’ll say to anyone else.” Dohark stood. “Do you still think you can operate
effectively against the seltyrs?”

“For now.” Mykel rose
as well.

“Don’t push it.
There’ll be a time when you can’t. Just ride away when that happens.”

“I will.” Mykel had
no desire for a so-called glorious death in the face of impossible odds. He’d
tried not to roll the bones except when the odds favored him. That wouldn’t
change.

“See that you do. We
need you.”

Mykel inclined his
head, then left the study. He appreciated Dohark’s warning about the gunpowder,
and the fact that the overcaptain had explained, rather than just dismissing
the idea, as Majer Vaclyn would most likely have done.

Once outside the
headquarters building, Mykel had to squint for a moment while his eyes adjusted
to the bright morning sunlight. A light wind blew out of the south as he walked
across the courtyard toward the structure holding the officer’s cell—and
Rachyla. The air was far warmer than it had been, giving the compound the feel
of early summer in Elcien. Mykel had no desire to remain in Dra-mur for the
long hot summer that was sure to come.

Even before he
reached the cell, one of the guards was watching him. Mykel stopped in the
shade cast by the overhanging balcony and blotted the dampness off his
forehead.

“Sir?” asked the
guard.

“Overcaptain Dohark
sent me. If you want to check—”

“No, sir. He already
told us that you were in charge of questioning the woman.”

Mykel suppressed a
smile. He owed Dohark for that. He wasn’t sure what he owed the overcaptain—a
thank-you or a practical joke, or both.

Rachyla did not even
look at Mykel until the guards closed and locked the door. She said nothing. In
turn, for several moments, he just looked at her.

“Your splinter wound
has healed,” she finally said.

“Yes.” He waited,
still standing a good two yards from her.

After a moment, she
asked, “Why are you here? Again?”

“Because I want to
be, because the overcaptain asked me, because…” He shrugged.

“You are losing?”

Mykel shook his head.
“Not so far. It might be easier if Fifteenth Company were.”

“Do not ask me for sympathy,
Captain.”

“I’m not.” He paused.
“More than a week ago—it seems longer—we were attacked by bluecoats at the
mine. Some prisoners tried to escape. The bluecoats stopped shooting at us long
enough to shoot down all the prisoners. Why?”

“A slave or a prisoner
can never be allowed to be free again. That is the law of the seltyrs.”

“What about you?”

“I will not be freed.
When my usefulness is over, I will be killed.”

“That’s why you talk
to me?”

“I must talk to
someone, or I will have no usefulness. You are honest. You are as sharp and as
direct as a dagger of the ancients, and with that edge you will likely cut your
own throat.”

“As sharp and as
direct as a dagger of the ancients? What does that mean?”

Rachyla looked hard
at him. “You are a dagger of the ancients, Captain. That is a curse and a
prophecy, but the daggers are real. I have only seen one. It was my
grandfather’s. He gave it to his worst enemy. Where it is now, who can say?”

Mykel couldn’t help
but wonder if the dagger concealed i in his belt was the same one. He doubted
it, because he couldn’t imagine a seltyr stooping to have a chandler as his
worst enemy, but one never knew. “Don’t you think the seltyrs are cutting their
own throats?”

Rachyla shrugged. “Do
they have any choice? Do you?

“Do I? Only the
stupid talk of choices. Wisdom is when you see that there are no true choices.”

“You don’t believe
that we have choices?”

A laugh filled the
cell, that same ironic and melodic laugh that he tried to recall once he had
left her—and never could. Mykel waited, hoping she would say more.

“We have choices,
Captain. We have one true choice at any one time. The rest are but illusions.”

“The illusion of
choice,” he said softly.

“You understand. You
wish you did not, but you do.”

“So I am fated to
kill hundreds of men whose only fault is that they follow an unwise seltyr, and
that seltyr is fated to fail because he sees no other choice?”

“Not if he would
remain a seltyr,” Rachyla replied.

“You’re saying that
the Myrmidons are using the Cadmians to destroy the seltyrs.”

“Are you not? My
father is dead. How long before the others are dead or wish that they were?”

Mykel didn’t have an
answer for that, not an honest one. “What of you?”

“I told you. Unless
someone makes a foolish choice, I will die.”

“Then why don’t you
just give up?” Mykel managed not to snap the words out.

A sardonic smile
crossed her lips. “Because, Captain, there are enough men who make foolish
choices that I see no point in seeking death. Death comes to all, sooner or
later, but I would rather not hasten it. Besides, it is amusing to see you try
to avoid your fate.”

“What is my fate?”

For the first time,
her face showed just a touch of indecision, but that indecision vanished even
as he read it in her green eyes. “You will be tormented by the One Who Is until
you no longer know what you believe or whom to trust and that is but the
beginning.” Abruptly, she turned away.

“So… what do you
suggest, Lady Rachyla?”

She did not turn or
respond.

She would not. That
he could tell, and he bowed, even though she could not see the gesture. “Good
day, Lady. Until the next time.”

He rapped on the
door, and waited until it opened.

Once he was outside,
the guards looked at him.

Mykel shook his head.

“Seems to go that
way, sir.”

“Still… each time, I
learn a little more.” Mykel wasn’t about to reveal all that he learned, and
some of what he learned didn’t seem applicable. Not yet.

As he crossed the
courtyard, he hoped that the reports from the scouts would offer some ideas on
what he could do with Fifteenth Company. Rachyla hadn’t been helpful there,
except to reinforce his feeling that the seltyrs weren’t about to surrender or
submit—just as she would not.

Dainyl had felt
exhausted after his two table trips on Duadi, brief as they had seemed, and had
gone back to his guest quarters in Lyterna to rest.

At the evening meal,
Asulet had reassured him, “The first trips are tiring. With each translation,
it gets easier. You’ll hardly notice it when you go back to Elcien tomorrow.”

“No more secrets?”
Dainyl had asked, with a smile.

“There are always
more secrets,” Asulet had replied with a laugh, “but those you don’t know won’t
help you until you master what you’ve just learned.”

That had been the end
of the information, as Asulet had asked about the latest music from Ifryn, and
about the weather in various places where Dainyl had recently been.

He politely refused
to answer any questions that dealt with substance.

Early on Tridi
morning, wearing his flying jacket and gloves, Dainyl had stepped onto the
Table in the chamber in Lyterna, his saddlebags over one shoulder. He
concentrated… and felt himself dropping through the silver barrier…

… into the chill
blackness. He extended his Talent, seeking out the brilliant white wedge at
Elcien. With his Talent-link, he rushed through the darkness, yet without a
real sense of motion, toward another silver barrier, one lined in white. White
silver sprayed from him…

He stood on another
Table. For a moment, he shivered. The jacket and gloves had not helped against
the cold blackness between Tables. The Table was identical to the others he had
used, or so it seemed. The walls of the Table chamber were of white marble, and
the floor of green. He stepped off the Table and walked to the heavy white oak
door: He opened it and stepped into a small foyer, with a second door. The
second door had a Talent lock, and it took a moment for Dainyl to release it.

After he stepped into
the familiar lower level corridor in the Hall of Justice, he replaced the
Talent-lock and walked toward the Highest’s study. Even before he reached it,
he could tell it was empty. He made his way to one of the other smaller
chambers, one where the door was ajar.

An assistant who
vaguely resembled Kylana, Dainyl thought, looked up. “Submarshal? Can I help
you?”

“The Highest?”

“Sir… he and Marshal
Shastylt are in Ludar today. He hoped to return this evening.”

“Oh. I’ve been
traveling. If you would tell the Highest that I’ve returned.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make
certain he knows.”

“Thank you.” With a
nod, Dainyl turned and made his way to and up the hidden staircase, out through
the Talent concealed stone doorway, and through the Hall of Justice. Outside,
the fat and chill flakes of a spring snowstorm pelted him.

It took almost a
quarter glass before a hacker and carriage drove by the Hall. It took less time
than he had waited to get back to Myrmidon headquarters, since there was no
reason to go to his house, not when Lystrana would not be there for glasses.
The interior of headquarters was welcomingly warm as Dainyl stepped inside,
still carrying his gear.

“Welcome back, sir,”
offered Undercaptain Chelysta, landing by the duty desk.

“Thank you.” Dainyl
smiled, gesturing toward the win-low from where the duty officer could see the
flight stage. “Fourth squad has the duty? Is anyone flying?”

“Viosyna lifted off
on the dispatch run to Ludar before he snow came in. I told her to hold there
until she was sure he storm had blown through.”

“Good. What else has
gone wrong while I’ve been away?”

“You mean outside of
the mess in Iron Stem, the missing skylances in Dereka, the wild Talent in
Hyalt, the rebellion in Dramur, the furor in Coren, the floods in Catyr, or the
missing pteridon and Cadmians on the

North Road

?”

Dainyl managed to
offer an ironic smile. “Let’s start with the missing pteridon and Cadmians.
Does this have anything to do with the Cadmian relocation from Scien to Norda?”

“Yes, sir. An entire
company of Cadmians vanished riding south to Norda. An unseasonal blizzard hit,
and there’s no sign of them anywhere. Third Company in Alustre sent two
pteridons to Pystra to see if they could find the Cadmians. One pteridon is
missing.”

“Missing? How could a
pteridon be missing?” Sometimes a rider had a mishap, and the pteridon returned
with-out the flier, but there was no record of a pteridon and rider vanishing.
Not in recent years, at least. “Could they have landed somewhere to wait out a
storm?”

“We don’t know,”
replied Chelysta. “It’s never happened before. We heard on Londi, and they had
been missing for a week. The report’s on your desk.”

“What about Iron
Stem?”

“The mines are open,
but third squad has been patrolling there…”

“What about the
skylances? Are more of them missing?”

“One more. No one
knows how it happened.”

Considering
then-Majer Dhenyr hadn’t known how the first disappearances had occurred, that
there was nothing new on the second wasn’t exactly surprising. “Hyalt?”

“Yuasult lost Synetra
to the Talent wielder, but they flamed him down, finally. Everything’s under
control there.”

“Coren?”

“The marshal’s been handling
that, and he hasn’t said anything, sir.”

“What about the
floods?”

“Catyr. That was
another case where the locals logged a section of the lower mountains, in a
place where we don’t usually overfly. They had warm rains, and some of the
hillside slid across the river. Then there was more rain, and a big lake built
up behind the mud—”

“The mud gave way,
and all that water washed downstream and flooded the town?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dainyl almost wished
he hadn’t asked. “Are Quelyt and Falyna around?”

“Quelyt has the day
off. He did a long message run to Salcer and back yesterday. Falyna was out in
the squares a while ago.”

“I’d appreciate it if
they weren’t sent on any more runs without first checking with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dainyl headed to his
study. As he had feared, there were eports stacked on his desk, but as he read
through them, it was clear that they added only a few details to what he had
already known or to what Undercaptain Chelysta had told dim. There were no
reports from Dramur, but then, there was no way for there to be any. There were
no Myrmidons there. Dainyl had no doubts that the situation had gotten worse.
It couldn’t have developed any other way.

He sat back in his
chair. Over the winter and the first days of spring, everything had gotten worse.
He couldn’t recall as many problems hitting at once. He also didn’t believe in
coincidence, but he couldn’t see a common cause—except in the cases of Dramur,
Catyr, and Coren, where one consistent factor was lander greed, tied to a lack
of understanding about the fragility of the world’s lifemass.

It wasn’t that the
schools didn’t teach about natural balance; it wasn’t that the landers and
indigens hadn’t been told that mature forests were better for the world. It was
that lifeforce couldn’t be measured except through Talent, and steers didn’t
have any. So, without a way to see the truth with their own eyes or senses,
when golds were involved, steers just let those teachings fall away—unless the
alectors stepped in with skylances or sent in a Cadmian battalion.

Yet, there was more
at work than golds. He still had no idea why he was being kept, so indirectly
and yet so obviously, from heading back to Dramur. It seemed clear enough that
the marshal and the Highest wanted things to go wrong there, but Dainyl still
couldn’t figure out why. Was it to weaken the Cadmians? Or because they
disliked the culture being built up by the seltyrs and needed an excuse to
destroy it, in a way that would be seen as justifiable by landers outside of
Dramur? The latter was certainly possible. From what he’d seen, he didn’t care
much for the way the seltyrs controlled the island. That possibility was
some-thing he could broach, at least in a veiled way, with the marshal.

He went back to
studying the reports, then reviewing the accounts, a task he would be more than
happy to turn over to his successor, whenever Dhenyr reached headquarters.

The marshal arrived
in the duty coach right after the fourth glass of the afternoon, presumably
after having used the Table at the Hall of Justice to return to Elcien. He
stopped at Dainyl’s door. “If you have a moment, Submarshal?”

Dainyl stood
immediately. He not only had the moments, but wanted to hear what Shastylt had
to say. He’d hoped the marshal wouldn’t be too long in returning, because he
was looking forward to seeing Lystrana, and not late in the evening.

Dainyl followed the
marshal, closing the door to the marshal’s study. He waited for the senior
alector to seat himself before settling into one of the straight-backed chairs.

Shastylt looked
tired, one of the few times that Dainyl had seen him that way, with redness
around the edges of his eyes and a sense of lagging lifeforce. His left eye
twitched several times. “How was Lyterna, Dainyl?”

“Most interesting.
Asulet clarified a number of things.”

“He has that habit.”
Shastylt’s tone was dry. “I assume you’ve read all the reports?”

“Yes, sir. I also
talked to the duty officer to see if anything new had happened.”

“Is there? I would
hope not. Enough has gone awry in the past few weeks without something else.”

“I didn’t see a
report on the floods in Catyr. Everything else was covered.”

“Catyr is another
example of lander stupidity and greed. It just came at a bad time, but it’s
manageable.”

“I don’t like the
report that we lost a pteridon,” Dainyl said bluntly. “We’ve never lost one, to
my knowledge.”

“In the early days,
we lost a few to the ancients.”

“Is that possible?
Now?”

Shastylt took a long
and slow breath. “The

North Road

is le northernmost high road in
Corus, and the coldest. The ncients have always preferred cold and the north.
There are occasional sightings, still. It is possible.”

“What else could it
be?”

“The Highest does not
know of anything else, but one way or another, it is worrisome. I sent a
message to Asulet asking for his thoughts. He said that was the most likely
possibility.” Shastylt looked across the wide desk, a desk that held neither
reports nor papers, and steepled his long fingers together. His eyes looked at
Dainyl without really eeing the Submarshal. “I’d like you to brief Colonel
Dhenyr when he arrives the day after tomorrow. I’m going to be tied up with the
Highest, and with the Duarches’ Council. They’re asking questions about the
problems in Iron Stem and Hyalt, and now the High Alector of Trade is claiming that
the way we handled Coren has created trade problems that will affect lifeforce
adversely.”

“From what I have
read in the reports,” Dainyl replied, “what was happening there before the
Myrmidons got involved was having an even larger negative impact on life force.
You don’t let people chop down older growth forests without some significant
impact.”

“Exactly. Unhappily,
the High Alector of Trade seems to feel that we should be overflying every old
growth forest in Corus.”

Even without
calculating, Dainyl knew that sort of overflying would have taken every moment
of the year for the hundred and eighty odd pteridons of the Myrmidons, not to
mention what the drain on the world lifeforce would have been.

“What about the
situation in Dramur?” asked Dainyl. “It will have been several weeks by the
time I return, even if I leave first thing on Sexdi. With all that is happening
here, it might be best if I returned there to see if I could wind matters up
there. That way, I could return here, and help deal with some of the other
problems. Several of them look to be even longer-running than Dramur… and more
serious.”

Shastylt nodded. “The
Highest and I talked that over earlier today. That might be best.”

“What do you think
about the seltyrs and the growers on Dramur?” Dainyl asked.

The marshal shrugged,
then gave a half smile. “Like most landers, their concern is for golds and
comfort. They are more ruthless than most in power, but that is because Dramur
is an island, and other landers cannot easily challenge them.” He raised his
eyebrows. “You think that they should be replaced?”

“I had not made plans
in such a direction, but I have thought about what might happen if they had
taken matters into their own hands in my absence.”

“You should follow
what you think, Dainyl. Dramur needs to be settled quickly, now. Since there is
an ancient tunnel there, also, you might take care to avoid it… in view of what
may have happened at Scien.”

Dainyl caught the
word “now” and kept his face pleasantly interested, as well as maintaining a
tight Talent-hold over his feelings. “I will be most careful. I’ll leave first
thing on Sexdi… after I’ve briefed the colonel on Quinti. In the meantime, is
there anything else you’d like me to handle?”

Shastylt tilted his
head before speaking. It was a pose. “Not at the moment. You may have to brief
the Highest and the Duarches on the situation in Dramur once you have resolved
it.”

‘Then, by your leave?
You are doubtless rather pressed…“

The marshal laughed
once, a sound not quite humorous, and forced. “Pressed is a very good way of
saying it. If I’m not summoned again, we’ll talk tomorrow about what I’d like
you to emphasize when you brief Dhenyr. You might give that some thought.”

Dainyl closed the
study door firmly but quietly on his way out.

He’d definitely
gotten the impression that whatever the marshal and the Highest had planned in
Dramur had not gone at all the way that they had anticipated. Now he’d be stuck
cleaning it up, and it was likely to be messy and bloody, because they’d
practically forced it to get out of hand. He just wished he knew why.