Cadmians Choice (30 page)

“Probably not.”
Lystrana paused. “Oh, I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night. We got a
dispatch yesterday that Rensyl suffered a fatal fall from a pteridon when he
was being taken from Fordall to Alustre. His creative accounting is being
remedied. One other engineer was involved. He was executed, and a team of
experienced engineers have translated from Ifryn to replace and enhance the
expertise of the engineering force in the east.”

“Convenient.” Dainyl
paused. “Engineers from Ifryn, not from Ludar or Faitel?”

“I thought that was
interesting.”

“It suggests that
Brekylt has the support of someone highly placed there.”

“The Archon wouldn’t
go against the Duarches. I can’t see that.”

“But he might go
around them,” suggested Dainyl. “Or, if it’s his idea, he could have told
Samist. If not, who knows who it could be? What did your Highest say?”

“He didn’t say anything,
but he’s worried. He went and saw Khelaryt, but he didn’t look any happier when
he returned. He did say that Zestafyn had already been sent to Ludar. I’d
prepared some material about it, and I think he sent it with Zestafyn. That was
one of the reasons I was late getting home.”

“Khelaryt’s worried,
then.”

“Concerned, anyway.”

At that moment, a
covered carriage pulled up outside. Dainyl hurried out through the drizzle that
had resumed and held the carriage door for Lystrana. He looked up at the
gray-haired hacker. ‘The Duarch’s Palace. The north entrance.”

“North entrance, yes,
sir.”

The hoofs of the
carriage horse were louder in the rain, and neither Dainyl nor Lystrana said
anything on the ride. When they stepped out of the carriage, they were the only
ones entering the palace, but that might have just been chance. They made their
way under the covered portico and through the lower archway, past the Duarch’s
guards, and into the lower great hall of the palace.

More than a score of
alectors moved among the paintings, and Dainyl thought he saw his mother, but
she disappeared behind a small group discussing one of the larger works.

The hall was floored
with the traditional octagonal tiles of green marble, linked by smaller diamond
tiles of gold marble, as were all of the large formal chambers. The hangings on
the side walls, between the goldenstone columns, were of dark green velvet,
trimmed in gold. Upon the small dais at the south end of the hall were seated
four musicians, playing something Dainyl half-recognized and should have known.
He frowned, trying to recall what it was.

“It’s Ghestalyn’s
Translation Variations,’“ murmured Lystrana.

“Thank you.”

“We might as well
start here,” she suggested.

Each painting was set
upon its own easel, and separated from the others by several yards. Dainyl
paused before the first on the east side of the hall, a view of the Duarch’s
Palace from out in the bay, clearly just at sunset. The walls shimmered with an
unworldly glow, and Jeluyne had caught that transitory orange twilight
illumination that lasted but for moments, but promised a glorious future.

“Not bad,” he
murmured. He couldn’t have even done a single brushstroke, but no alector would
admit such in public.

“I like this one,”
said Lystrana from before the second easel.

Dainyl slipped beside
her and murmured in her ear. “I like you better.”

Lystrana flushed ever
so slightly, then shook her head. “What do you think of the painting?”

Dainyl studied the
image of an oceangoing vessel, spray flying from the bow, with rocky cliffs set
behind the ship, probably Ludyn Point. “It’s well done, but I think she does
buildings better.”

They moved on down
the row of paintings.

“I haven’t seen
Kylana, and she’s usually here every chance she gets,” mused Lystrana. “She
always wants to be seen.”

“Preferably with
those in power,” murmured Dainyl. “Or those who can tell her the latest
intrigues on Ifryn.”

“Some information on
that wouldn’t hurt,” Lystrana replied in an even lower voice.”

“True.”

Most of the images
were ones recognizable to either Lystrana or Dainyl, if not both, until they
reached the third painting in the second row. The painting showed a market
square, filled with landers and indigens. Just to one side of the center was a
lander patroller, wearing the double-scepter badge of the Duarchy, his finger
pointing accusingly at a smashed squash or gourd on the stone sidewalk before
the small produce stand. The seller was an indigen woman who was backed up
against her small cart, listening. Behind them both, a sly-looking man was
lifting the seller’s coin box. None of the others in the square seemed to
notice either the dispute between the patroller and the woman—or the ongoing
theft.

“Clever,” said
Dainyl. “I suppose that must be the eastern market square.”

“It could be any
market square,” replied his wife.

“Lystrana!” called a
voice Dainyl recognized all too well. “And Dainyl.”

The two turned to see
Dainyl’s mother moving toward them. Alyra wore the dark silver gray that she
usually affected, with a shimmering silver vest.

“It’s so good to see
the two of you out.” Alyra immediately faced Lystrana. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. At times,
Kytrana makes me uncomfortable, but I understand that’s to be expected.”

“Oh, it is. Dainyl left
me uncomfortable more than sometimes.” Alyra frowned, slightly. “I’m glad to
hear that, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant. Didn’t you hear? Your
colleague Zestafyn was attacked by a wild translation last night just as he was
about to translate from Ludar back to Elcien.”

Dainyl could sense
Lystrana’s shock, although his wife only nodded somberly as she asked, “Last
night? Just last night? How is he?”

Alyra shook her head.
“It was one of the dangerous ones. There was a Talent explosion.”

“Oh ... oh ... I didn’t
know. Poor Kylana.”

“Indeed... poor
child. She was so distraught she must have found a lightcutter and turned it on
herself. Such a terrible tragedy. So truly awful.”

Dainyl swallowed
silently. His mother scarcely knew Kylana and had cared less for her posturing.
What Alyra was conveying was not sympathy or gossip, but a warning.

“She was so devoted
to Zestafyn,” Lystrana replied, “but I never would have expected anything like
that.”

“So unexpected. Such
a tragedy. One moment, you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, carrying
out your duties ... and the next moment...” Alyra shook her head. “I suppose
anything can happen anymore, even to the most faithful administrators and
Myrmidons. But... we shouldn’t dwell on what we can’t change.” She smiled
brightly. “I’m so glad to see you here. How are you finding the exhibit? Isn’t
Jeluyne marvelous? I so admire her use of color and her choice of subjects.”

“This one is
certainly different,” Dainyl said.

“One can’t ignore the
landers and indigens. They have their place. I do prefer the one of the Duarch’s
Palace, myself...”

Dainyl had never
heard his mother prattle so. She was more than worried.

He definitely needed
to get to see Zelyert, and not just about the growing number of icewolves. The
High Alector might well know that, but Dainyl doubted he knew about why
Zestafyn had been killed. Equally important, Dainyl also needed to discover
what Zelyert knew.

And... he and
Lystrana needed to maintain their personal shields far more than they had.

Late in the afternoon
on Novdi, Mykel rode at a measured pace southwest along the high road, heading
back toward the center of Southgate. Despite his earlier worries, the training
was going well, and he’d had no problem in letting the rankers and officers knock
off two glasses earlier.

He yawned, then
stretched in the saddle. He had to admit that he was tired. In addition to
trying to keep track of each company’s progress and needs, at night, he’d been
studying maps and whatever he could find about the Hyalt area. He’d talked to
those senior rankers and squad leaders—both in his battalion and among Sturyk’s
troops—who had any knowledge of the roads, the trade, or the area. He knew more
than when he’d begun, but not much.

He’d also spent more
time trying to get a handle on his talent, studying the auras of various
Cadmians, seeing if the auras indicated how they might act or react, and their
self-possession. He had some ideas, but how accurate they were he wouldn’t know
until Third Battalion saw action, and he was in no hurry for that to happen.

The road and the side
streets were far busier on Novdi afternoon than they had been on the previous
times he’d ridden out from the compound. Several times he had to rein up or
slow down to avoid carts, wagons, or peddlers on foot. He tried to listen as he
rode, and occasionally caught fragments of conversations, some with meaning and
some baffling.

“... no need
fullering ... sweat it up ...”

“... Merysa took in
more coins after the ball... than all week ... young swells can’t barely touch
women ... fancy like that... looks that good herself... best one in the house
...”

“... might well as
chisel cork ...”

“... fodder’s up
again ... another copper a quint... suppose have to mix in fish meal...”

For all the traffic
in the outer areas, the center of Southgate was as subdued and quiet as it had
been the last Decdi he had been here. Mykel saw no one in the park, but he was
earlier than an hour before sunset.

There were no
hitching posts as such, but he did find a section of railing not far from the
stele he judged to be closest to the villa of Seltyr Elbaryk. He tied his mount
there and walked back to the stele. He had wanted to study the relief carvings.

For a moment, he just
looked at the images in the stone. From their appearance, they had been done
recently, but they felt old. Still, the stele didn’t have the feel he had begun
to notice with the eternal stone of the high roads. The other aspect of the
stele was that there were absolutely no words inscribed in the stone beneath or
above the relief.

Mykel glanced around,
but saw no one in the nearer section of the memorial park. He slowly walked
along the stone wall to the next stele. It was identical to the first. He
continued to the third, and then the fourth. All were identical.

Having established
that, Mykel looked more closely at the carving itself, trying to discern
differences between the figures of the seltyrs.

Almost half a glass
later, he sensed that someone was coming. He did not turn immediately, but it
had to be Rachyla. Her aura was unmistakable. Someone was with her, and from
what he could sense, it appeared to be a much older woman.

He continued to look
at the stele, although he no longer studied it, but just waited, feeling as
though he stood on the edge of a precipice.

“Majer?” Her voice
bore a surprise Mykel knew she did not feel.

He turned. “Rachyla
... what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing
here?”

“Taking some time
away from the compound. The park and the stelae had interested me, and I
thought I’d look at them more closely. What about you?”

“I am taking a walk
to where I can meditate.” Rachyla turned to the graying woman. “This is my aunt
Herisha. She is my mother’s youngest sister.”

Although Rachyla had
not said, Mykel gathered the impression from Herisha’s gray garments and
withdrawn demeanor that she was not the aunt who was the mother of the current
seltyr.

“And have you found
anything startling in your perusal?” Her tone was not quite mocking.

“There’s a certain
oddness about the image. Some things are obvious, though. The number of seltyrs
matches the number in Southgate, and the number of villas around the memorial
park. That would stand to reason, but behind them is an alector, and that is a
much larger figure. Yet there never has been an alector in Southgate. There is
no regional administrator, and there are no Myrmidons.”

“Perhaps the carving
is a warning that, seen or not, there is an alector behind the seltyrs of
Southgate.”

“That is possible.”

“Would you mind,
niece, if I went over to the bench and rested?” asked Herisha.

“I should have
suggested it,” Rachyla said, “although I will not be long. The majer is most
courteous ... for a Cadmian officer.”

Herisha nodded and
turned, limping her way to a stone bench some twenty some yards away, close
enough that the older woman could see everything, but hear little.

“It’s hard for her to
walk long distances,” observed Mykel.

“She likes to leave
the villa as much as I do, and I would not deprive her.”

“You are both
prisoners.”

“I have been a
prisoner before, Majer. Have you forgotten?”

“No. I never will.”

“Neither will I.”
Surprisingly to Mykel, her tone was matter-of-fact, neither hard nor cutting.

“How did you come to
be here?”

“My cousin Alarynt
offered me the choice of dying in my bed or ‘visiting’ Elbaryk. I don’t have to
spell out my choice, do I?”

“He couldn’t marry
you off?”

“No. If I had sons to
another seltyr, even to a junior son, they would have a claim on Stylan.”

Mykel should have
guessed that.

“Besides, Alarynt is
small-minded and vicious in a devious fashion. By returning me to Elbaryk, he
places a burden on him. If anything happens to me, Elbaryk will be accused of
not honoring his own mother and the women under his care. Those things do
matter to him, unlike Alarynt.”

The more Mykel
learned of the seltyrs, the less he cared for them and their customs, and,
somehow, the more he cared for Rachyla.

“Do not pity me,
Majer.” Those words were cold.