Scepters (24 page)

“Please
close the door and have a seat, Majer.”

Alucius
sat down cautiously.

From
behind the colonel’s desk, Frynkel looked at Alucius. “Captain-colonel Omaryk
had said that you were not only an officer, but a warrior-leader.”

It
took Alucius a moment to recall that Omaryk had been one of those who had
debriefed him in Tempre years before. “Warrior-leader, sir?”

Frynkel
laughed wryly. “That’s why you’ve led so much from the front.”

“I’ve
had trouble leading any other way, sir.”

“Just
remember this, Majer. All the great war leaders led from the front. Most of
them died. There were less than a handful that didn’t die in battle, and they
founded empires and saved lands.”

There
wasn’t much Alucius could say to that or wanted to. So he remained silent.

“I’ve
spent most of the day cleaning up the mess that Majer Fedosyr created. Or
rather, explaining that he had overreached himself. I found the pouch of
acid-dust. He had more in his quarters. How did you manage to escape that?”

“I
saw him reach for something. It seemed likely that it would be thrown at either
my face or my feet.”

“You
saw that while you were fighting?”

“Yes,
sir.”

“You
see more than you tell.”

“Everyone
does, sir.”

Frynkel
shook his head.

“I
haven’t seen the colonel,” Alucius ventured, trying to shift the subject and
probe as well.

“I
doubt that you will, since he has left Krost Post for his family home in Syan.
I asked for and accepted his resignation. He had enough service for a stipend.”

“So
I was a tool for that?”

“Let
us say that you helped. It was most useful to be able to point out that Jorynst
did not recognize your past contributions. It was even more useful to be able
to cite his failure to understand casualty figures. That allowed me to note
that a once-distinguished officer had apparently suffered a loss of mental
faculties by denying verified and published figures and events.” Frynkel’s
smile was both wry and cold. “I did make sure that several lancers made copies
for the files and for dispatches.”

Alucius
understood that. Those lancers would spread the word. There was no way to stop
that, and Frynkel certainly hadn’t wanted it stopped. “And Majer Fedosyr? Was
that part of the plan?”

“Majer
Fedosyr has always had an excessive opinion of himself, as well as well-placed
friends in Tempre. They have always been rather forceful supporters. I hadn’t
realized that he had a hidden pistol or that he was foolish enough to use it.
If he had killed you, he would have been court-martialed and executed. That
would have solved that problem, but I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to pay
that price to get rid of him.” Frynkel looked at Alucius. “You didn’t have to
kill him. He would have been court-martialed. Why did you?”

“I
wasn’t certain of that, sir, and my grandsire always told me that a man who
gave a sander or a sandsnake a second chance was a fool and deserved what he
got. Majer Fedosyr was a sandsnake, and I felt that it was likely that he’d
have gotten away with what he did if I hadn’t acted then and there.”

“You
may be right, but we’ll never know.”

Alucius
wasn’t about to point out that there had been too much risk in letting Fedosyr
live.

“You
made a point with all those lancers. You also set a personal standard that
could be hard to live up to.”

“I
can’t say that I’d thought about that, sir. I did what I thought was right.”

“The
Lord-Protector told me that you always did. He also said that such officers
were to be used sparingly. The right is too powerful a weapon for frequent use.”
Frynkel looked directly at Alucius for a long moment. “I’m leaving tomorrow for
Tempre. Overcaptain Nybor is temporarily in charge of Krost Post, with orders
to support you fully. Even without my orders, I doubt you would have
difficulty.” Frynkel paused. “Your orders allow you some latitude in when you
leave. When you do, you are to proceed directly to Hyalt and not to go to
Tempre.”

“I
had thought so.”

“You
also have complete discretion in Hyalt, and that means that you will be fully
accountable.”

Alucius
understood that message as well. Hyalt was another opportunity for total
personal disaster.

“When
do you intend to leave?” asked the marshal.

“Londi.
I’d thought we’d take a measured pace, with mounted drills every morning and
individual weapons practice and drills every evening. The individual practice
won’t tire the mounts, and if I can instill good habits in tired men, they’ll
hold.”

“You
and Overcaptain Feran make a good team.”

“He’s
very solid and very practical, sir.”

“That
seems to be a trait of the north. Along with ruthless idealism implemented
pragmatically.”

“For
all the procedural niceties, sir, I did not ask for this assignment.”

“I
know. It is recorded as my suggestion to the Lord-Protector. If you’re
successful, we both will profit.”

Alucius
didn’t see how having to follow Colonel Weslyn would be any great profit to him
or to his family—or the stead. He could see all too easily the disasters that
would follow if he succeeded to command of the Northern Guard—let alone those
that awaited him if he failed earlier.

“I’ve
been away from Tempre too long,” Frynkel continued. “Marshal Wyerl has requested
my return so that he can leave to take personal command of the Lord-Protector’s
forces defending Southgate and the trade highways.”

Alucius
nodded.

“I
wish you well, Majer, for both of our sakes, and trust I will see you in Tempre
before too long, reporting your success in dealing with the rebels.”

While
Alucius understood that the marshal wanted to end the meeting, there were too
many unanswered questions. “Sir… there are a few matters…”

“Yes?”

“Supplies.
The post at Hyalt has been taken. It’s unlikely that we can count on local
support for rations or feed, at least not much past the south of Tempre. I’d
like to request some supply wagons…”

“In
Lanachrona?”

“Especially
in Lanachrona, sir. I would doubt that the Lord-Protector would wish us to
forage off his own people…”

Frynkel
took a deep breath. “We can make arrangements. What else?”

“More
information. There are maps, but the only reports we have are a season old.
What kind of weapons and mounts do they have? How many are there? Where did
they come from?”

Frynkel
shook his head. “You have all the information I have. That’s all the
information anyone in Lanachrona has. We sent in scouts. Not a one returned.
Since the first traders and crafters fled, no one else has appeared coming
north or east out of Hyalt.”

“No
one?” No one.

“You
expect me, with three companies, to deal with something like this?”

“I
never told you it would be easy, Majer. The Lord-Protector is stretched thin
everywhere.”

Just
how thin Alucius had not realized. He took a slow breath.

All
in all, he spent another half glass with the marshal before finally saying, “Thank
you, sir. We’ll do all that we can and appreciate your support.” He paused,
then asked, “By your leave, sir?”

“You
have my leave and best wishes.”

Alucius
rose, trying to make the movement fluid, when he felt anything but graceful.
Frynkel said nothing more as Alucius left the study.

He
walked back across the courtyard to his quarters, thinking. Frynkel had used
him to solve a problem at Krost Post, exactly as the Lord-Protector was
planning to do in Hyalt. That underscored his own problem. He had more planning
to consider so that he was not merely reacting when he reached Hyalt, and that
meant some intensive study of the maps of the area around Hyalt. The lack of
information bothered him, because it strongly suggested the ifrits might be
involved. But how could he tell?

He
smiled, faintly, ironically. There was one simple aspect to the day’s events.
Now that Fedosyr and Jorynst were gone from Krost, Alucius could finish his
letter to Wendra and send it off. Again, he pushed aside his worries about her
and Alendra. He doubted he’d be sending many dispatches from Hyalt, and for a
glass or two of the evening ahead, he didn’t want to think deeply about what
lay ahead, even if he would have to in the glasses and days before him.

Dekhron, Iron Valleys

“Even
in harvest, it is chill here,” observed Sensat, closing the shutters against
the twilight. He moved to the iron stove set against the outside wall of the
study, where he opened the stove door and thrust in a generous shovelful of
coal before setting the shovel against the hearth wall and propping it against
the base of the scuttle.

“Acorus
is a cold world,” replied Tarolt. “You knew that.”

“Knowing
it in one’s mind and feeling the chill seeping into your bones on all but the
warmest of summer days are two different matters.”

Sensat
pulled one of the chairs closer to the stove and seated himself.

“It’s
not just the chill. It’s everything.” He gestured at the shelves and the books
set upon them. “This, this is one of the largest collections of what passes for
knowledge in all of Corus. The paintings, they are as child’s drawings. The
sculpture is crude, raw, unfinished. The buildings are low and squat. Save for
the handful of towers surviving from the Duarchy, nothing soars. Nothing
challenges the eye or the spirit.”

“If
you miss Efra so much, you could chance a return.”

“And
risk becoming a wild translation? One world-translation in a lifetime is quite
enough.” Sensat took a deep breath. “Can I not miss the soaring spires of
Deconar? Or the high domes of Peshmenat? Can I not regret not having listened
more intently to the lilting compositions of Ghefari?”

“You
can. I miss them as well,” Tarolt replied. “But there will be no spires in the
future, no music for the ages, no domes that span the skies… not if we do not
complete and strengthen the grid. Not if we do not prevent the ancient ones and
their tools from again acting against us.”

“Always
the ancient ones…”

“Once-powerful
pastoralists, who would try to pass their lack of ambition on to dull steers.”
Tarolt shook his head. “Steers who have no concept of art, of architecture, of
beauty. They would leave their world a dull mudball drying in the eternity of
time, accomplishing nothing, striving for nothing, becoming nothing.”

Sensat
stood and walked to the stove, opening the door and adding more coal. “You’re
right. I’m still cold, though.”

“Dull
steers worthy only of providing the lifeforce for achievement and glory,” Tarolt
said quietly. “Remember that.”

Under
the soft light of the wall lamp in his quarters, Alucius leaned back in the old
wooden chair, ignoring the creaking as his weight shifted, and blotted his
forehead. The night was as warm as some summer days on the stead, and he
doubted that he’d ever get used to the heat of the south. Places like Hyalt and
Soupat—or Southgate—were even warmer. He glanced over at the nightsilk skull
mask that lay folded on the corner of the desk. Wearing it in the current
weather, even at night, would leave him a mass of sweat. Still… it might prove
useful at some point.

After
taking a swallow from the water bottle he had set on the corner of the desk, he
eased back forward, studying the map, his eyes following the narrow roads to
the west of Hyalt. The map didn’t show how high the hills were, or how steeply
they might climb into the eastern side of the Coast Range, but from the way the
roads curved on the map, it was clear to Alucius that the terrain was anything
but level. After a time, he took the calipers and began to measure the
distances, writing them down on a sheet of brown paper.

He
had to hope that the maps he had been studying were indeed correct, or mostly
so. He’d learned over the years that few were totally accurate, but if the
roads he had measured and studied went roughly where the map said they did,
then he could at least attempt the strategy he had in mind. Then, too, he told
himself, once he got to Hyalt, he might have to rethink everything.

Would
there be more of the strange Talent-creatures in Hyalt? Or was it too far south
for them? Or did it matter? While the soarers did not appear in the south, he
had the feeling that the creatures associated with the ifrits would not be
limited by heat.

No
one seemed to know much about the revolt in Hyalt, except that the followers of
the True Duarchy had appeared with weapons early on an end-day morning and
slaughtered an unprepared and badly outnumbered garrison. Alucius had decided
that a thorough reconnaissance was the first step, including staying well away
from the town of Hyalt in the beginning. The more information he could gather
before acting, the better.

His
lips quirked into a half smile. He already had a reputation for being almost
impulsive and ruthless, and he wasn’t sure that he was truly either. Ruthless?
The ifrits had been ruthless.

He
paused. Did every effective officer rationalize his actions that way? Did the
ifrits?

After
a long silence, he returned to studying the map and making notes.

When
he was finished with the maps for the night, he’d write some more on the letter
to Wendra. It was always more pleasant to end the day—or night—thinking of her.

Alucius
studied the small hall in which he found himself, a vacant space ten yards long
and half that in width. The walls were of pink marble with a tinge of purple,
and at intervals of five yards half pillars were set within the marble—or
against the stone. Alucius could not tell which. The stone pillars were of
goldenstone, not gilded, but golden throughout. Overhead, slightly more than
five yards above him, curved a ceiling of the same pink marble. All of the
stone was so precisely fitted that his Talent could detect no sign of joints or
of mortar. The floor was of octagonal sections of polished gold and green
marble, each section of green marble inset with an eight-pointed star of golden
marble, with the narrow arms of the star outlined in a thin line of
brilliant—and unfamiliar—metal.