Cadmians Choice (45 page)

Dainyl studied the
flight stage, a circular gray stone platform in the center of the courtyard
behind headquarters. It stood a yard and a half above the paved courtyard and
also doubled, if infrequently, as the site for the administration of justice to
alectors. The top of the platform was empty, except for the justice stand—a
crossbar affixed atop a single post—set in place for what was to come.

After several
moments, Dainyl turned to face south and the three squads of Myrmidons, ranked
as closely as possible. Even so, each squad took a square thirty yards on a
side, with the five Myrmidons lined up before their pteridons, blue wings
folded back.

“First Company stands
ready, sir.” Ghasylt’s eyes met Dainyl’s.

“It won’t be long.”
Dainyl took a last survey of First Company. The pteridons of fourth squad were
ranked at the back, without their riders, since fourth squad would be
undertaking prisoner escort duty. The area on the north side of the landing
stage had filled with reluctant alectors from across Elcien, and at one side
were diree aides to the Duarch, doing their duty of noting all those alectors
who were present—or more precisely, those who were not.

Among those present
was Lystrana. Dainyl was less than pleased to see her. He worried about the
impact on Kytrana, but Lystrana wasn’t far enough along in her pregnancy to be
excused. Another four or five weeks, and she wouldn’t have to view any
administration of justice until Kytrana was a year old.

He looked at his
wife, and, from across the courtyard, she returned his look with a smile. He
couldn’t help smiling as well, if but for a moment.

Finally, Dainyl
turned. “Myrmidons, ready!”

“First Company,
present and ready!” declaimed Captain Ghasylt.

After receiving the
official report, Dainyl turned, standing at attention.

A last group of
alectors hurried into the courtyard just before the third glass of the
afternoon. All in all, Dainyl judged close to a hundred and thirty alectors—in
addition to the Myrmidons—filled the area north of the flight stage, waiting.

Three deep chimes
issued from the headquarters building, and the silence dropped across the
courtyard.

The senior assistant
of the High Alector of Justice stepped from the headquarters building. Acting
in place of the High Alector as Administrator of Justice, he wore both purple tunic
and trousers, with the black trim required for administration of justice. His
upper left sleeve bore a crimson armband identical to the ones worn by the
Myrmidons. Across his chest was a black sash. Behind him were two assistants,
attired in a similar fashion, except without the sash. The first, an alectress,
carried the lash, its black tendrils tipped with razor-sharp barbs. The younger
alector who followed held the Mace of Justice.

The Administrator of
Justice walked deliberately up the steps and onto the stone stage, setting
himself three yards behind the empty justice stand.

“Bring forth the
malefactor!” The Administrator’s voice, barely a baritone, was nearly lost in
the vastness of the courtyard, but the rear doors of the headquarters building
opened. Undercaptain Chelysta emerged, two

Myrmidons immediately
behind her. A barefooted alector in shapeless dark red trousers and shirt
walked behind them, his hands manacled behind his back. Two more Myrmidons
followed the malefactor.

Not a single murmur disturbed
the courtyard as the Myrmidons escorted the malefactor onto the stage up to the
justice form.

The Administrator of
Justice watched intently as the Myrmidons unshackled the prisoner. While the
Highest’s assistant had considerable Talent, it was nowhere near the immense
presence of Zelyert himself, but it was doubtless enough to deal with the
malefactor, if necessary. The malefactor seemed volitionless as his wrists were
clamped to the frame. Then, Chelysta placed the red hood over his head. The Myrmidons
stepped back behind the threesome about to administer justice.

The Administrator
took three steps forward and to the side, facing the prisoner. “We are here to
do justice. You are here to see justice done. So be it.” He addressed the
alector strapped to the frame: “Sukylt of Elcien, you have abused mose who
trusted you. You have betrayed the trust placed in you by the Archon and the
Duarches. You have deceived, and you have cheated all who live upon Acorus by
your acts. For your crimes, you have been sentenced to die.”

Almost without
pausing, the Administrator turned to accept the lash from the assistant, who
then stepped back. The other assistant brought forward the Mace of Justice,
raising and then lowering it.

“Justice will be
done.” The Administrator of Justice raised the lash, and struck.

The barbs on the lash
were sharp enough to shred normal cloth and flesh with one stroke. The lash was
symbolic as much as physical because, as the lash struck, the Administrator
used his Talent and the crystals concealed within the Mace to rip lifeforce
from the malefactor, funneling it toward the pteridons formed up in the
courtyard.

The direction of that
lifeforce was sloppy, Dainyl sensed, in a fashion that the Highest would not
have appreciated, but Dainyl was not about to report that.

The Administrator
needed a good ten strokes of the lash—twice what the Highest had ever
required—before the figure in the T-frame slumped forward. Blood was splattered
not only across his back and over the shredded remnants of the red garments,
but across the stones of the stage as well.

Dainyl had stayed
himself against the agony radiated across the courtyard, and still found
himself close to retching. He could sense Lystrana’s discomfort as well, and
more than a half score of watching alectors had collapsed.

One last stroke of
the lash followed before Dainyl sensed the emptiness that signified death, a
relief after the extended flogging.

“Justice has been
done.” The Administrator nodded to the assistant with the Mace.

The assistant stepped
forward and directed the Mace at the figure in the frame. Pinkish purple flowed
over the dead alector, who was already turning to dust—another bit of
sloppiness. A flash of light followed, and only the empty frame remained.

Immediately, the Administrator
walked off the flight stage, followed by the pair of assistants. Chelysta and
the Myrmidons waited a long moment before following.

Dainyl turned to face
Captain Ghastylt. “First Company, dismissed to quarters.”

“Yes, sir. First
Company stands dismissed to quarters.”

Dainyl turned and
walked toward headquarters.

Most of the alectors
who had watched the dreadful ceremony had left, but Lystrana remained, standing
beside the courtyard doors to the headquarters building. Her face was as pale
as it was possible for the face of an alector or alectress. Dainyl moved toward
his wife slowly, so that they were nearly alone by the time he reached her. The
Myrmidons had all returned to quarters or the pteridon squares with their
pteridons.

“Are you all right?”
asked Dainyl.

“I will be.” She
paused, then added, “That... was terrible. You could have done a far better
job.”

“I don’t know that I’d
ever want to.”

“If it has to be
done, it should be quicker.”

“Maybe the Highest
doesn’t want it that way,” replied Dainyl in a low voice. “He may well want it
done in a terrible fashion upon occasion. People don’t always understand if
things are too easy or painless.”

Lystrana nodded
slowly. Some of the color had returned to her face. “If he dragged out the administration
of justice, he’d seem incompetent or willfully cruel and sadistic.”

“I had that thought,”
admitted Dainyl.

“It still bothers me.”

Dainyl’s stomach
remained knotted, but there was little point in saying so. Lystrana could sense
that. “Will you be late tonight?”

“Not that I know. My
highest is in Ludar. They all are, even Khelaryt.”

Dainyl frowned.

“I know. It doesn’t
seem wise, but perhaps he feels that it is a way of showing strength.”

“Or he’s doing it now
because it would be more dangerous later. That way, he can request the next
meeting of all the High Alectors and Duarches be in Elcien.”

“If Samist refuses
then ... it might erode some support.”

“It might.” As he
spoke Dainyl doubted that he would ever be able to calculate such intricacies
of position and power—or want to do so.

“I need to go,
dearest.” Lystrana extended her hand.

Dainyl took it, then
offered his arm. They walked around the headquarters building and toward the
front gate.

“You’ll be all right
walking back?” he asked when they reached the gate.

‘The walk will do me
good.” With a smile, she stepped back, but not before squeezing his hand.

He stood and watched
her still-lithe form for a time as she walked along the boulevard back toward
the Palace of the Duarch. Then he turned. He hoped that the rest of the
operations reports had arrived with the latest dispatches, although whether
they would tell him anything of value was problematical.

Three long days had
passed since Mykel had met the soarer in the darkness near the hilltop to the
west of the old garrison. The days had been quiet, with no sign of strange
creatures in the quarry for nearly a week. The new compound was coming along
well enough, with the major work near completion on the barracks. Mykel had
even designed and drawn an emblem for the two Hyalt companies, one that both
captains did not dislike.

For all that, Mykel
remained uneasy.

In thinking over what
had happened with the ancient soarer, he had realized just exactly what Poeldyn
had not said on the day Mykel had first met the two craftmasters. Poeldyn had
said that the hilltop was unlucky. Close as it was to Hyalt, with a view of
both the town and the hills farther to the west, and even of the low mountain
above and behind the regional alector’s compound, Mykel should have realized
earlier that more than ill chance was associated with the hill. From what he
could tell, the soarers generally appeared in the heights. Although the hilltop
behind the old garrison was not all that high, it was the highest point near Hyalt
on a gentle ridge that extended in both directions, gently sloping back under
the town to the east and into the rolling hills to the west. As he reflected,
Mykel realized it was really the only hill or ridge that ran east to west,
another fact he should have considered and hadn’t, probably because it did not
stand out in height or ruggedness.

The other problem
Mykel had was what the soarer had suggested—that Mykel had the same interests
as the ancients, and that his own interests would not be served by the
alectors. How could he trust that? Yet... after having been attacked by the
strange alectors, and after Rachyla’s warnings, and after what he had seen in
Dramur about how the alectors manipulated landers and seltyrs, how could he not
be wary of alectors, even those in the Myrmidons? Yet... it was likely that
Submarshal Dainyl had saved him not once, but twice.

In the end, one thing
was clear. The soarer had been correct about his talent before he had
recognized it for what it was, and her advice about concealment made sense, no
matter what else happened. The only problem was that after three nights Mykel
had made little progress in discovering how to damp the greenish glow that
emanated from him. The night before he had walked back up the hill, but there
had been no sign of the soarer—only the faintest hint of her amber-green and
all too much of his own deeper and brighter shade of green.

He was more than a
little worried, because there was no telling when he might next encounter an
alector, and because of the strange creatures, the battalion’s companies had to
continue their patrols, although he had told his captains to give a wider berth
to the area around the regional alector’s compound, on the grounds that the RA
had the ability to protect his own area and that Third Battalion had been
dispatched to protect Hyalt specifically.

Even so, that would
only purchase some time.

In the darkness of
his temporary quarters, Mykel held the dagger of the ancients in his hand.
Perhaps, if he could find a way to damp the glow of the miniature ancient
weapon, he could apply that technique in some fashion to himself. The dagger
was only metal, and yet it held an amber-green feeling, almost as if it were
alive, with an obvious glow emanating from it, if only to his senses.

Except it had not
been obvious just to him. Rachyla had been able to feel it as well. Did that
mean that she had a talent similar to his? Surely, she should have known that.
He shook his head. She might, and she might not. That could wait. With more and
more alectors around Hyalt, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

First, he
concentrated on sensing the dagger, what it was, and what it was not. It felt
like steel, in a fashion, and yet it felt partly alive, and the sense of green
issued from whatever about it generated the feeling of life. That realization,
too, was more of a feeling that anything he could have described.

Next, he closed his
eyes and focused his sense of feeling on himself, and what he was.

There was a greater
amplitude, far greater, of the green, and no sense of the metallic, confirming
his understanding that the green was tied to life. Had the soarers imbued the
knife with the force of life itself?

From that, questions
cascaded though this mind, and he pushed them aside for the moment, bringing
his concentration back to the dagger and to himself. How could one damp out the
very force of life itself?

One couldn’t, not
without damping out life itself. That meant either changing the color he
emanated from green to the colors that radiated from most others or finding
some way to block—or shield—the energy. Would changing his color limit his
talent? If so, he certainly didn’t wish that. He was having enough trouble
surviving with his abilities. Trying to do so without them was something he
wanted to try only as a very last resort.