Cadmians Choice (36 page)

“He’s from Ifryn. He
came here as an infant. I checked.”

“No, sir. The
original Noryan did. He was shorter than I am, rail-thin, and nervous. He had
no sense of humor, and didn’t want to talk to anyone. He liked horses and
pteridons and had no sense of command at all. Alcyna transferred him from
Eighth Company just before Captain Sevasya took command. The Noryan who
appeared in Alustre is almost as tall as Khelaryt, as muscular as a bull, with
shoulders to match, with a low-key sense of humor, and leadership skills. He
was an undercaptain in less than two years, a captain in two more ...”

“That would explain
much.”

“You don’t seem
surprised, sir.”

‘The only thing
surprising is that you’re still alive.”

Shastylt laughed, an
edge to his voice that Dainyl had not heard before.

“Why? At this point,
I don’t have anything that I could bring before the Highest or the Duarch.
There might be two alectors left alive anywhere who know firsthand what I just
told you, and I doubt either could say absolutely that Noryan is not Noryan.
Besides, the Noryan we know has an outstanding record since he was transferred
from Eighth Company.”

“That wasn’t what I
meant. The Table grid almost collapsed yesterday, and stability wasn’t restored
until this morning. You could have been a wild translation by now.”

“I was fortunate.”

“More than you know,
Dainyl.” Shastylt stood silent for a moment. “Do you have any idea what Brekylt
has in mind?”

“No. Not besides
building his own power, that is. It’s clear he and Alcyna essentially have
control of Third, Fourth, and Seventh Companies, and that they control the
Tables in Alustre, Norda, Dulka, and Prosp. They’re not pleased with you or
with the High Alector of Justice. I was hoping you might be able to tell me
why.”

Shastylt fingered his
squarish chin, then nodded. After several moments, he began to speak, slowly. “Brekylt
thought he should have been named High Alector of Justice, and Samist had
pressed for that. Khelaryt thought differently, and in a difference of opinion
between the Duarches, the final decision rests with the one who has direct
supervision. Khelaryt chose Zelyert. As Zelyert has hinted, he has great
concerns about how lifeforce growth is managed. Too rapid and too widespread a
growth of manufactories will indeed increase indigen lifeforce, but that spike
in lifeforce is followed by a rapid decline in overall world lifeforce because
the growth is fueled by the destruction of things like the forests, too many
fields bearing only one crop, and too much killing of nondomesticated plants
and animals. Brekylt and Samist want to increase indigen lifeforce and present
that as a reason why Acorus is suited to hold the Master Scepter. Zelyert and
Khelaryt believe that a broader-based lifeforce mass is more conducive to
supporting the Master Scepter. In effect, the Archon has only said that he will
evaluate bodith Efra and Acorus when the time comes.”

All of that might
well be true, Dainyl noted, but it was far from a complete explanation. “Are
they afraid Zelyert and Khelaryt might be able to prove they are right?”

“I think they fear
that they are wrong and that Acorus—and they—will suffer.”

“How will they
suffer? If the Master Scepter does not come here, will they not remain as they
are?”

“No. Khelaryt and
Samist will be judged to have failed, and will be replaced by regents of the
Archon. All those serving them will be examined. Some may remain. Some
certainly will not.”

“And if Samist and
Brekylt managed to take total control of Acorus, what would the Archon do?”

“If they proved it
could best support the Master Scepter... nothing. If not, they would be cast
into the long translation tunnel without end.”

Dainyl felt a cold
shiver go down his spine.

“You tell me,
Submarshal,” said Shastylt. “Are they planning such a revolt?”

“I don’t know. I
would judge that they are planning for that possibility.”

“That is what Zelyert
has feared—and planned for.”

“Might I ask how?”

“You might, but I
cannot say, because he has not answered that very same question for me.”

That also was true,
Dainyl sensed. It also raised another question. “Can we do anything about
Alcyna—and those companies?”

“Can you imagine
anything worse than Myrmidon fighting Myrmidon? The drain on lifeforce from any
prolonged battles would doom Acorus to being forever subservient—if it didn’t
plunge the world into immediate chaos and destruction. Your task is much the
same as it was in Dramur. We must keep the Myrmidons out of the conflict, not
because we do not support the Highest and the Duarch, but because we do.”

“Wouldn’t it just be
simpler for Alcyna or Brekylt to have a mishap of some sort?”

“It would indeed. Do
you know anyone who could accomplish that without leaving a trail back to
us—and setting Myrmidon against Myrmidon? It’s ironic, but they face exactly
the same problem.”

“So ... lesser
individuals who support them—or us— suffer mishaps ... until someone can break
the stalemate in a decisive way—without ravaging the lifeforce of the world?”

“You have an
admirable grasp of the situation, Dainyl. Within those confines, we do what we
can and we must. As always. I’ll leave you to think about it.”

After Shastylt
departed, Dainyl walked back to the window. The situation was worse than he had
feared, and in more ways than he had expected. He also noted one other
interesting point: Shastylt had given him no orders and no directives. They had
only been implied.

He also realized
something else. Shastylt had never committed to either side, not really. That
surprised Dainyl not at all.

Mykel was up well
before dawn on Quinti, checking with his officers. He hadn’t slept all that
well, with dreams about the ancient soarers—the first he’d had in some time,
but they brought back all too clearly the sense of antiquity and power that he
had felt so strongly when he had met the soarer above the mine in Dramur.

The battalion had
spent the day before returning some semblance of order to the garrison. Mykel
had also made sure that the ammunition wagon had been unloaded and the contents
stored in the old armory, underground in the vaults that hadn’t been that
damaged—just missing whatever ammunition might once have been there. He didn’t
want Third Battalion’s ammunition out in the open. The duty guards had seen no
signs of irregulars or brigands, but Mykel hadn’t expected they’d appear for a
few days, not until word got around, especially since they seemed only to have
targeted the Cadmians.

The garrison roof had
remained intact in most places. That might have been because the roof tiles
were cracked and in poor shape and probably would have come apart if anyone had
tried to remove them, but Hyalt wasn’t known for heavy rain, and any roof over
the troopers was better than none.

Late on Quattri Mykel
had visited the chandlery and several other places and gotten the names of some
growers. Before long, he’d have to work out provisioning arrangements—along
with everything else—because the provisions on the wagons, replenished last in
Tempre, would last but another week at best. Then there was the need for fodder
for the mounts. Regular furnishings and equipment for the new compound would be
sent by wagon from Tempre once it was nearing completion.

Morning muster was
barely completed on Quinti when two townsmen appeared, one driving a battered
cart pulled by a swaybacked horse, and the other sitting beside him. The cart
creaked to a halt outside the gap in the walls that had once held a gate, but
even the iron hinges had been pulled out of the brickwork.

Suspecting that the
two were the guild heads, Mykel walked toward them. By the time he reached the
cart, the driver stood beside the horse, holding the traces loosely.

He was a squarish
indigen, with darker skin, strong blunt features, and brown hair showing
streaks of gray. His broad hands were callused, with a pinkish welt across the
back of his left hand. “Poeldyn, Majer. Building guild. Troral said you’d like
to be seeing us.”

“Mykel,” the majer
offered. “I did.” He looked to the second man, minner, perhaps a few years
younger, with a full reddish blond beard.

“Styndal—crafters.”

“We’re going to be
relocating and building a larger compound.”

“On this hill...
shoulda been done long time back,” muttered Poeldyn.

“What about this
hill?”

“Just... unlucky ...
always has been.” Poeldyn forced a smile. “What you be needing?”

“We’ll need
stoneworkers, masons, carpenters, tilers...”

“You got plans ...
and someone who knows what they mean?” asked Poeldyn.

“I have the plans,
and I know something about what they mean.” Mykel grinned. “What I don’t, I’m
sure you two do.”

“We don’t work for
free,” added Styndal.

“I have some golds,
and a letter of credit for the balance, so much to be drawn every month.”

“Credits ... aren’t
good for ...”

“The letter means I can
draw golds on it. I assume Troral or one of the factors has arrangements.”

Styndal nodded. “He’s
got arrangements.”

“Biggest problem’ll
be getting quarrymen,” offered Poeldyn.

“The quarries haven’t
been used lately?”

“You might say as so.
That was where all the trouble started ... and for all their blue-flame lances,
them Myrmidons weren’t all that good at rooting out the strange ones.... They’d
flame everything, even melt some of the facing stone, and afore long the
creatures’d be back.”

“Tell me about the
strange ones.”

Poeldyn glanced at
Styndal, then finally spoke. “They were fearsome things. One was half man, from
the waist down, and like one of those flying creatures the Myrmidons have on
the top. Another one was like a sandox, except with a big triangular horn.
There was one big black giant cat with claws sharper’ n knives ...”

“Has anyone seen
anything like that lately?”

“No one’s wanted to
go out to the quarry, not with no one building anything,” Poeldyn pointed out. “Not
since Boreal... anyway.”

“Boreal?” The name
meant nothing to Mykel, but there was something about the way the crafter had
mentioned it.

“He was a squad
leader with the Cadmians ... should have been the undercaptain, from what
everyone said. Real good about getting to where trouble was. Funny thing,
though. Everyone else got cut up or shot. Looked like he’d been burned. Not
much blood, either, not for all the slashes.” Poeldyn shrugged. “Since he got
killed, no one wants to work the quarry. Never any trouble when his squad was
out there. Best shot in Hyalt or anywhere around.”

Those words sent a
chill down Mykel’s back, but he pushed the feeling away. “I’ll have a patrol
investigate the quarry before anyone returns to work there.” He paused. “Who
owns the quarry?”

“It belongs to the regional
alector, but anyone in the town has the right to quarry there now that they
finished their building out west.”

“What else should I
know?” Mykel kept smiling. “Have the irregulars, the ones who attacked the
garrison, been seen lately?”

The two craftmasters
exchanged glances once more.

This time, Styndal
was the one to reply. “No. Fact is, no one rightly knows who did it. One
morning, like Poeldyn said, everyone was dead. Some folks heard screams the
night before, and some noise. Some of the bodies

were shot, and some
were slashed up, like with blades. We never saw anything.”

“Not then, and not
since,” added Poeldyn. “Troral told the alector, and his folks came and took
care of things, and they had the flying creatures.”

That didn’t exactly
square with all the reports Mykel had gotten. “What happened to all the
ammunition and the supplies, then? And the mounts?”

“Majer... sir...
Maybe the alector’s folk took them. If not... Hyalt’s not the wealthiest of
places. Things ... well... who could blame folk if stuff disappeared in the
dark.”

That was even worse,
Mykel reflected, because it meant it was likely that some or all of Cadmian
rifles and ammunition were out among the locals—up to fifty rifles, with
spares, if all the weapons of the two squads that comprised the garrison had
been taken.

“And there’s been no
shooting since?”

“Well... Beznanet got
found dead last week. No one minded. He’d been stealing fowl for years. Other’n
that... nothing.”

Mykel waited.

“Will the new place
be having spaces for the pteridons?” Styndal asked, almost deferentially.

“All Cadmian
compounds have at least a few stages for when the alectors fly in messages. The
plans call for two. There won’t be any pteridons or Myrmidons here all the
time.”

“That’ll be better.
Some of the crafters ... well, Majer, - you know how some folks can be.”

Mykel could
understand being wary of the pteridons, but not what that had to do with
building a compound. “Anything else?”

Poeldyn laughed. “Let
us know when you’ve got the place and when you want us to start, and then we’ll
look close-like at the plans, see what changes we might have to make.”

“I’ll do that. Can I
leave word with Troral?”

“That you can.”

After the two drove
off, the cart wheels—or axles— squeaking, Mykel walked back through the battered
and crumbling gateposts. He had known there had to have been problems in Hyalt,
but he hadn’t expected that he’d have to worry about creatures around a quarry
in addition to insurgents who didn’t sound like any insurgents he’d ever
encountered, if they were insurgents at all. But... if they weren’t, who were
they? And the comments about the squad leader who was a crack shot and who’d
been burned ... that sounded like an alector sidearm, and he didn’t like the
possibility of a rogue alector wandering around Hyalt at all.