Cadmians Choice (44 page)

“Why indeed?”

Dainyl almost
swallowed as the thought struck him, but he managed a smile instead. “Because
he doesn’t want us to actually see what this wild Talent is. Or find out from
the Cadmians there exactly how many there have been?”

“Those are the most
likely probabilities. He could be trying to delay any reaction on our part. Or
he could be trying the exact opposite, drawing us into investigating and
setting some sort of trap.”

Dainyl could see both
as possibilities.

“How is your plan for
Hyalt coming?” asked Shastylt.

“I can set it into
motion any time. Do you want me—”

“No. Not yet. If
Rhelyn and Brekylt are setting a trap, they’ll expect an immediate reaction. If
they’re stalling, we can still give them a little time.”

Dainyl had to admit
that Shastylt’s analysis made sense, but only if they didn’t wait too long, and
he had no idea just how long too long might be. Then, he might come up with
something better, if he had more time— although he had his doubts about that.

“Have you told anyone
about it?”

“No, sir. There are a
few who might suspect I am planning something, because I needed information,
but I have not provided information that would indicate much.” Dainyl hoped
that was true, and doubted that Sulerya would reveal even what he had found out
from her. “The fewer who know, the less risk to the Myrmidons involved.”

“You’re still a field
commander at heart, Dainyl.” Shastylt laughed. “Don’t let that color your
judgment too much. Sometimes, casualties are necessary.”

“Yes, sir, but I
prefer that they occur to the other side.”

“That’s fine .. . if
we can determine exactly who is the other side.”

“It appears that Rhelyn
supports Brekylt. That would suggest he’s not exactly one to trust, especially
now.”

“He never has been.
His allegiance is to Duarch Samist. Such as his allegiance is.”

Dainyl doubted that
many of the senior alectors had firm allegiances, not after what he had been
learning. Instead of replying, he merely nodded.

“Have you heard about
any more appearances of the ancients?”

“No, sir. But... I
only heard of those I reported when I visited various locales. It’s not
something that anyone reports.”

“There’s a great deal
that no one reports. That is why we must act with caution.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll let you know
when you need to put your plan for Hyalt into action. It won’t be for several
days, if not longer.” The marshal glanced toward die window. “Rain or no rain,
the Highest and I have to brief the other high alectors and Duarch Khelaryt.”

“The best of fortune,
sir.”

“That would be
useful.” Shastylt paused. “Are all the preparations made for the administration
of justice on Quinti?”

“The mace and
garments are ready, and fourth squad will handle the prisoner.”

“Good.” Shastylt
half-turned, signifying that the meeting was over.

Dainyl stepped out of
the study, closing it behind him. He disliked administering justice, even if
the condemned alector had murdered an indigen without cause.

As he walked back to
his own study, he also considered Shastylt’s words about casualties. They made
a sort of sense, but there weren’t that many alectors on Acorus, not so many
that large numbers of casualties were that good an idea, at least not in Dainyl’s
judgment. And too many casualties among landers and indigens just reduced the
total lifeforce of Acorus, which wasn’t exacdy desirable either, not when the
Duarch wanted more lifeforce. More important personally, he really did not wish
to be one of those casualties. That was another reason why he’d quietly
requisitioned two more lightcutter sidearms—for “operational purposes.”

Mykel looked up
through the darkness at the ancient ceiling. His quarters were a small room in
the corner of the garrison from which the doors and windows had vanished, as
had all doors and windows, doubtless looted after the slaughter of the
garrison. Only the intermittent hint of a night breeze occasionally wafted over
him.

Somewhere beyond his
vision, somewhere out in the darkness, he could sense shimmering amber-green,
and this time he was certain he was not dreaming about the beckoning nature of
that sense. He shifted his weight on his bedroll, feeling what seemed to be
every grain of sand under the makeshift pallet. The back of his neck and his
shoulders were damp, and a thin film of sweat covered his forehead. He wished
that he could have sent off the report to the submarshal, but it was still two
days before the sandox coach made its next appearance in Hyalt, and the coach
would be far faster man any messenger he could send.

He finally sat up on
the bedroll and glanced toward his uniform, hung on two makeshift pegs on the
wall. A definite glow emanated from his belt—from the concealed slit that held
the dagger of the ancients. Yet it was not a glow that any other Cadmian would
have seen. That he also knew.

Should he follow the
summons?

Slowly, he got to his
feet and pulled on his uniform and then his boots. He’d seen enough in Dramur
to know that, if the ancients wanted him dead, they didn’t have to entice him.
Besides, he had the feeling that he wasn’t going to get much uninterrupted
sleep until he went out to see what was happening. It could be just his
imagination.

He checked his rifle,
assuring himself that the magazine was full, and then strapped on the extra
ammunition belt that he’d carried for years and seldom worn. He’d almost left
it behind, trying to persuade himself that majers had no business carrying
extra ammunition, but, in the end, he’d brought it.

He moved through the
dimness, still surprised at the clarity of his vision in the darkness, but glad
to have that acuity. Mykel could see the guard by the gate from well inside the
courtyard. There were also two other wall

guards, but they were
stationed at the rear corners. He struggled to recall the ranker’s name before
finally coming up with it.

“Vaetyr ... Majer
Mykel here.”

“Sir?”

“It’s me.” Mykel
moved slowly forward, his rifle held with the barrel low.

“Ah ... what can I do
for you, sir?”

“I’m going out. I
just didn’t want to alarm you.” Mykel laughed softly. “Or get shot when I
return. I don’t think I’ll be long. I’m going up the hillside to take a look at
things when people usually don’t.” That was true enough, if slightly misleading.

“Yes, sir.” Vaetyr
sounded more than a little unsure.

“Just keep alert. I
shouldn’t be that long.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mykel stepped out
through the gate posts. He’d seen no reason to spend time replacing the gates
when the old garrison was indefensible against a large force and when an attack
by anything else was unlikely. He did circle well to the north because he
wanted to stay out of view and earshot of the guard on the northwest rear
corner post.

Once he was a good
fifty yards north of the north wall, he stopped and looked back at the town. It
was dark, without a single lamp or torch lit. Then he turned and studied the
hillside to the west. Perhaps two hundred yards up the slope, on the broken
redstone that formed an ill-defined hillcrest, was a glow—amber-green.

Mykel took a deep
breath and resumed walking, picking his way carefully around the low scrub and
the occasional juniper, his eyes, ears, and senses alert for any sounds or
indication of brigands or other less than savory possibilities, such as the giant
cats. The only sounds were those of insects, the occasional call of a brush
owl, and the muted crunching of his own boots on the sandy soil.

As he walked, he
wondered why no one had built higher on the hillside. The garrison could have
been defended far more easily. There was no sign of any other structure. Hadn’t
Poeldyn started to say something about it?

He kept moving until
he neared the small jumble of rocks that marked the hillcrest. While he neither
sensed nor saw nor heard anyone or anything, he didn’t like the idea of going
farther. He stopped, looking around. The glow had been where he stood—or
somewhere close.

Abruptly, he was
surrounded by a haze of green.

The soarer was more
beautiful—and less human— than he recalled. Hovering there before him, slightly
more than half the size of an adult woman, she had green eyes that took him in
and looked through him. Her hair was golden green, but he could not tell how
long it was because it merged with the halo of power around her. For all the
apparent light she created, he could see no shadows, and the air around her was
cool, despite the warmth of the night.

She said nothing.

“You summoned me ...
or suggested I should come here,” Mykel finally said, his voice low, barely
above a murmur. Yet his words seemed to boom out.

You
ignored that call almost too long
.

“I didn’t know what
it was. At first, I thought I was just dreaming.”

We
are not dreams. If you would survive and prosper, you would do well to
understand the difference between what you sense and what you imagine
.

“Why did you call me?”

Mykel gained an
impression of laughter.

Why
not? Our interests are the same, although you do not know that. Why that is so
we leave to you, but you will not learn that unless you learn more about your
talent
. There was a pause.
How did you know to come
to this spot?

“I followed the green
glow.”

You
glow far more brightly than do we, for any who would look. You must learn to
cloak what you are
.

“A dagger of the
ancients?” . .

That
is only a name. The invaders, the ones you call alectors, will kill you if they
sense what you are. They wish no rivals to their ability. They think of you as
wild and untrained, a wild talent
.

Mykel started to
retort, then swallowed. The last phrase had been the very words used by the
alector who had tried to kill him.

“But... why?”

You
have seen how we and ours must feed. We take but a small portion of what they
require. They will bleed the world dry long before its time
.

Mykel wanted to
protest, but decided against it.

You
Cadmians are their herding dogs, to keep order among the steers
.

“Why are you telling
me this?”

Why
not? If you learn to conceal what you are and watch and listen, you will
understand. If you do not, you will die at their hands and weapons, as did the
other. We would prefer to help those who will preserve the world, rather than
destroy it
.

“How am I supposed to
conceal what I am, and how is one person supposed to do all that?”

Concealment
is merely making sure that you do not send forth the energy of your being. One
does not have to shout to the world that one exists. Just exist.

“One person?”
prompted Mykel.

One person? In time
you must find another like yourself. . .. If not, what will be . . . will be. .
. .

The glow and the
soarer vanished, and Mykel found himself standing alone in the darkness—except
he could see that there was another glow. It came from him. Had it always been
there? Had he just not recognized it? Or had the soarer done something to make
him aware of it?

What could he do? Why
did he have to do anything? Because he had no choice. Boreal had done nothing
and died—that was the implication of what the soarer had told him. What “other”
could there have been? But why did the alectors hate landers like him and
Boreal?

They did. That was
certain. He still recalled the image of fear and hatred on the face of the
alector who had found him.

A grim smile crossed
his lips as he began to walk slowly downhill. How could he just exist”? How
could he damp a glow when he didn’t even know what caused it?

At a quarter past the
second glass of the afternoon on Quinti, Dainyl left his study, wearing on his
upper left sleeve the crimson armband that signified alector misconduct or
blood wrongly shed, or both. The administration of justice was scheduled to
begin at the third glass. As often before, the marshal had left Dainyl fully in
charge of the proceeding.

Captain Ghasylt was
waiting by the duty desk, where he was talking to Undercaptain Yuasylt. He
stopped, straightened his crimson armband, and stiffened. “Submarshal, sir.”

“At ease, Captain. Is
fourth squad ready to escort the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir. They all
have their sidearms and armbands. The prisoner was brought in two glasses ago.
He’s in the holding cell. The duty coach is standing by at the Hall of Justice.
One of the Highest’s assistants will be standing in for him.”

Dainyl didn’t like
that at all, because the assistants weren’t as Talented as the Administrator of
Justice, and that would drag out the agony of the proceeding. Still, he nodded
to Ghasylt. “Stand-ins all the way around.”

“You’re taking the
marshal’s position, sir?”

“Today.” With a smile
he hoped wasn’t too ironic, Dainyl walked down toward the north end of the
building to check the holding cell and fourth squad.

Finally, at a quarter
before the third glass, Dainyl stepped out into the courtyard behind the
headquarters building under high clouds that had kept the summer day from being
as hot as usual. The breeze off the bay made the courtyard almost too cool.
Fourth squad would be escorting the prisoner, but the three remaining squads of
First Company and their pteridons—less the Myrmidons flying dispatches—had
begun to form up south of the flight stage.