Cadmians Choice (73 page)

“It is the least I
could do, Majer. You fed me when I was ill... as well as you could.” Her tone
was matter-of-fact, cold.

“How long have I been
here?”

“Just since this
afternoon. It is near midnight now. I had thought you might wake.” She stood
and peered into his eyes. “I thought as much. Did you strike your head?”

“I struck ...” He
tried not to cough, but couldn’t stop. It felt as though his entire back was
bruised. When the coughing subsided, he took the smallest sip of the ale,
hoping it would calm his throat. He waited, then spoke again. “I hit
everything. The explosion threw me into a stone wall.”

“You have a
concussion. It will pass. What about your shoulder?”

“One of the rebel
alectors shot me with one of their weapons.”

‘The ones that burn
with light?”

Mykel nodded, trying
to keep from coughing.

“You should not be
alive.” After a moment Rachyla went on. “You will need a new sabre and scabbard.
Your belt buckle snapped into three pieces. I know of no one who has been
wounded with the burning weapons and who has lived.”

He would have
shrugged, but he knew that would have sent shooting pains everywhere.

“I cannot say I am
fond of you, Majer, but I am not at all fond of the evil ones, and for your
killing of so many, I am appreciative.”

“How did you know ...
?” Mykel stifled a yawn. How could she possibly have known?

“I asked your
undercaptain why he brought you here. He said that you had killed more than a
score of the evil ones—he called them rebel alectors—but whatever name they
have, they are evil. He felt you would be safer with someone who knew something
about them. He did not want you helpless in the compound.”

As he lay there,
taking another sip of ale, looking at Rachyla, exhausted as he was, he had
sensed something strange about her words, especially at first, but his head
throbbed, and he could not identify why he felt that way. He could not sense
much about how she felt, unlike most people, from whom he could gain a sense of
feeling and sometimes more. He frowned. She was like the seltyr trooper in
Dramur and the alector who had shot him— one of those few he could not feel or
sense.

“For many reasons, I
could not deny him. Not when the evil ones have done so much to us.” She
laughed, once, harshly. “It is so ironic that you, who serve them, have done
more to avenge my family than anyone.”

“You planned it that
way. Or hoped ...” He tried to stop the coughing, but he doubled up in pain
anyway. After a moment he lay back, his head swimming.

“Me, Majer? I could
not plan my own course, let alone yours.”

Mykel felt
differently, but the coldness of her voice and his own exhaustion told him he
should not pursue those thoughts. He should not have said as much as he had. He
should have said something about Fabrytal and nothing about Rachyla. He
definitely owed Fabrytal— and it was clear the undercaptain was more perceptive
than Mykel had realized. He managed another swallow of the ale, realizing that
he had emptied the beaker— between drinking and spilling it.

Rachyla took it from
him. “That is enough for now. You should not eat or drink any more until your
eyes are better.”

Until his eyes were
better? He could see, if in double images, or was that what she meant?

She said something,
but he could not make it out.

“... sorry ...” he
mumbled.

“Why do you persist?”
she asked. “Even when you cannot move, you arrive at my door.”

“The ancient said we
were tied, somehow,” he said tiredly. Was that what the ancient soarer had
said, or was that how he had interpreted it?

“You must have
imagined it.” Her voice was chill once more. ‘The ancients do not tie men to
women. Nor do they advise men—not those who wish to live.”

“Believe what you
will, Rachyla.” His eyes were heavy again, and he struggled to stay awake, to
keep looking at her. His eyes closed anyway.

On Novdi morning,
Dainyl could barely move. His legs were stiff and sore. His head throbbed, and
occasional shooting pains stabbed down the arm that had been sliced earlier
with the ancient sword. Had Galya taken care of that? He’d forgotten that in
the welter of follow-up details. Several of the pteridons of fallen Myrmidons
had been loaded with items Dainyl had not wished to leave—mainly all the
lightcutters. In the end, he’d destroyed the two working lightcannon, because
they were too heavy to carry by pteridon and too dangerous to leave in any
custody but that of the Myrmidons.

Slowly he forced
himself off the too-short pallet bunk and into a sitting position. Then he
stood and pulled on the rest of his uniform. After gathering himself together
and taking care of various necessities, he returned to the way station proper,
and to the corner where rations were laid out. At least there was some ale. He
poured some from the pitcher into one of the tin mugs and took a long swallow.
He didn’t see Fhentyl, but Galya was standing to one side.

“Galya?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you bury that...
weapon?”

The Myrmidon nodded. “Yes,
sir.” She shook her head. “Could tell that wasn’t something anyone needed to
use.”

“Don’t tell me where.
Don’t tell anyone else about it.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re to accompany
me on a quick flight—after I have something more to eat. I need to convey some
orders to the Cadmians before we leave.”

“I’ll get my gear and
wait for you outside, sir.”

Dainyl nodded, his
mouth full.

When he did leave the
way station, heading for his own pteridon, he saw Fhentyl.

The captain was
standing beside his pteridon, checking his gear. “We’ll be ready in less than a
glass, sir.”

“That’s fine. I’m
flying over to the Cadmians, with some last orders. I won’t be gone long. Galya
will accompany me.”

“We’ll be waiting,
sir.” Fhentyl’s tone remained very formal.

Dainyl could sense
the underlying fear and concern, and a deeper puzzlement, possibly a
questioning of why anyone would pit one company of Myrmidons against another.
He offered a smile. “We won’t be long,” he repeated, turning toward his own
pteridon.

Although he was
stiff, in moments he was in the saddle and harness and airborne, with Galya
flying wing to his left. Farther to the southwest, he could make out faint
wisps of smoke still rising from the burned out building.

After he landed on
the slight slope to the west of the old garrison—he didn’t feel like trying to
squeeze the pteridon into the narrow space east of the walls—Dainyl dismounted,
but he wasn’t about to seek out Captain Rhystan. He was far too sore, and he
still had a day’s flying ahead of him. Fortunately, he did not have to send
Galya for the captain, or even to wait long.

The senior captain
walked briskly from the old garrison out to the pteridons and their fliers. He
headed directly to Dainyl.

“Submarshal, sir?”

“Captain, the
Myrmidons will be leaving shortly. You are to continue with your primary duties
of completing the Cadmian compound and readying the two companies to take over
once the compound is completed. In the meantime, you are to mount a patrol of
the area around the regional alector’s compound. Your principal task is to keep
all locals and foragers out of the burned-out building and tunnels. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Rhystan’s
voice was pleasant, but formal.

“I cannot say when a
regional alector will return, or when the complex will be rebuilt. You will
doubtless be notified, if Third Battalion is still deployed here. Majer Mykel
may be tied up in Tempre for a while longer, or he may return within the week.
We’ll be heading there next. You’ll remain in command here until he returns.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any
questions, Captain?”

Rhystan paused, then
frowned. “Are there ... were there any survivors who escaped? Third Battalion
did not see any, but it would be good to know ...”

“Not so far as we
know. If there are any, they cannot number more than a handful, if that. I do
not think they will bother you.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhystan
stepped back, respectfully watching, as Dainyl mounted his pteridon.

Lift off. . .to the
northeast. . . The pteridon burst into the air.

As he climbed, Dainyl
surveyed the grasslands, now universally golden, and then the high road, with
only a handful of wagons and riders, far fewer than would be the case to the
north and west, especially on the high roads bordering the Bay of Ludel. From
the air, the new Cadmian compound looked nearly finished, except for the piles
of stone both within and outside the walls, and the dirt road that led down to
the high road.

After landing the
pteridon north of the way station, he immediately dismounted, concealing the
wince he felt at the soreness in overstrained muscles.

Fhentyl appeared
immediately. “We’re still headed to Tempre, sir?”

“Yes. We’ll overnight
there. There is space for both companies.” Dainyl glanced past the captain to
see Lyzetta standing back a distance, waiting to talk to him.

Fhentyl turned. “The undercaptain
wanted a word with you.” With a nod, he stepped away. “We’re ready whenever you
give the word, sir.”

“It won’t be long.”
Dainyl gestured for Lyzetta to join him. “You wanted to speak to me,
Undercaptain?”

“Yes, sir. Will you
be assigning an officer to command Seventh Company?”

“Not at the moment.
You will remain in command.”

“Captain Veluara had
placed Asyrk as senior, junior only to Klynd.” Lyzetta’s voice was even, but
there was tension behind it.

“I’d like to see him.
I’ll talk to you both.”

“Yes, sir. Just a
moment, sir.”

Dainyl had the
feeling he knew what was coming. With Veluara having been appointed to command
by Alcyna, how could it have been otherwise?

When, moments later,
Lyzetta returned with an angular alector, Dainyl barely managed to refrain from
nodding. He could sense the slightly darker purple of an Ifryt translated, not
recently, but within the past few years, and shields stronger than those of any
normal undercaptain.

“Submarshal, sir?”
Asyrk inclined his head politely. “You wished to see me?”

“I wanted to see you
both.”

Lyzetta looked
intently at the other undercaptain, and

Dainyl understood
immediately why she had raised the question. It also confirmed his decision to
have her hear Asyrk’s story. She already suspected his origin, and as Asyrk’s
commander, which she would be, if Dainyl allowed Asyrk to live, she should know
his background details.

“Yes, sir.” Asyrk’s
eyes met Dainyl’s.

Behind the level
gaze, Dainyl could sense apprehenion, if not outright fear. “Asyrk. How is
Illustra these days? Or recently, should I ask?”

“You knew about
Veluara, didn’t you, sir?” When Dainyl did not reply, the undercaptain went on,
“Will you destroy me, too, Submarshal?”

“I might. Tell me why
I shouldn’t.”

Asyrk squared his
broad shoulders. “Illustra will not last long, sir. It might not be another
year. When I departed two years ago, there had been three attempts to overthrow
the Archon. In the last one, he destroyed more than a score of pteridons. Each
effort and the Archon’s reactions to each have destroyed lifeforce more
swiftly. Alectresses who gave birth without permission were being secretly
executed, along with their husbands and children. Their relatives were told
that they had been translated to Acorus or Efra....”

Lyzetta’s eyes widened
at the last. Dainyl could not honestly admit he was surprised. Shocked at the
coldness of the Archon’s actions, but not surprised. He continued to listen.

“... my company was
ordered west to Elunin. When we returned, my wife had vanished. No one would
say— or could say—where she had gone or why, except that she had been there on
a Tridi and the house was empty on Quattri. She would not have left like that.
When I could, I searched for her, for over a year. All I found out was from an
old indigen who swept the floors of the Hall of Justice. He said that all the
relatives of Majer Ilusyrn had disappeared. She was the daughter of his cousin.
A daughter of a distant cousin!”

“I take it Ilusyrn
displeased someone?” asked Dainyl.

“He led the second
Myrmidon revolt. He claimed that the marshal and the Archon had been removing
all the officials who opposed their plans for the diaspora to Acorus and Efra.
He offered proof that many of the families of those around the Archon were
already on Efra—those who survived the translation, I suppose.”

“How did you manage
to get to Acorus?”

“My cousin was a
recorder. He told me a few things, but he was afraid to help me. I bided my
time, and brought him some of the best Laeso red wine—twenty golds a bottle,
but what did I care? I drugged it, of course, but with fheln. It’s not toxic,
so that you can’t sense it. It just combines with alcohol to put people to
sleep. The fheln cost three times what the wine did, and it took me months to
obtain. When he and his assistant went to sleep, I got onto the Table.” Asyrk
shrugged. “If Caela had been translated, I had one chance in two to end up on
the right world. If she’d been killed, what did it matter which world I ended
up on?”

“Didn’t you know the
risks? Only one in three or four survive a long translation.”

“Remaining on Ifryn
was certain death, and no one was going to let a mere Myrmidon undercaptain
make a translation to a better world.” Asyrk stopped, waiting.

“Where did you end up
here, and how did anyone let you become a Myrmidon?”

“I got to Norda—I
suppose it could have been anywhere—and I told the recorder there that I was a
Myrmidon undercaptain who’d been forced to make the long translation.” A half
smile crossed Asyrk’s lips. “That was mostly true.. He didn’t know whether to
believe me or not. So he turned me over to Majer Noryan. He didn’t know me, but
he’d heard of me ...”