Soarers Choice (5 page)

He
walked to the half-open window and looked out. The barest breath of air wafted
past him. For an early morning late in harvest, it was already hot. Styndal was
directing a windlass crew and a crane in placing the last of the roof beams on
the headquarters building. Mykel nodded. He had to admit that the Hyaltan
crafters had done good work, better than he’d seen in a few places. But then,
he reflected, Hyalt was a town that had come on hard times, and the workers
were eager for work — and good pay.

His
eyes lifted above the walls to the west, but he could not make out the regional
alector’s complex from the new compound, not that there was much to see,
according to Rhystan. Submarshal Dainyl’s pteridons had flattened and burned
the one outbuilding and used some sort of fire to gut the interior of the
tunnels and chambers cut into the rock of the cliff.

Mykel
took a deep breath and stretched, before heading for the door and down to the
half-paved courtyard.

Troral,
the head of the council in Hyalt, as well as the largest cloth factor in the
area, was due to arrive any moment to discuss the delivery of blankets and
other needs for the compound. After that, Mykel needed to observe a drill
involving both Hyaltan companies. In a sense, the exercise was a formality.
Both companies had performed well in the actions in Hyalt and Tempre, although
Second Company had seen more action in Tempre than First Company had in Hyalt.

Mykel
had no more than stepped away from the barracks when Captain Cismyr appeared
and rode toward him. “Good morning, Majer. We stand ready for the exercise and
evaluation.”

“I’d
guess about half a glass, Captain. Don’t head out to the exercise area until
then.” Mykel offered a wry smile. “I have to meet with Troral first — about
some supplies for you and your men, like blankets for the winter. Is there
anything else you need beside what we went over yesterday?”

“No,
sir. Matorak couldn’t think of anything, either.”

“Good.
At least, I hope that’s good.” Mykel smiled. “If it’s likely to be much longer
than half a glass, I’ll send a messenger. It’s too hot for men and mounts to
wait in the sun.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Cismyr
turned and rode back toward the main gates. From what Mykel could sense, First
Company had drawn up in the shade of the outside west walls.

Mykel
walked toward the headquarters building, staying well back, but watching as
Styndal’s crafters fastened the last of the roof beams in place.

The
telltale creaking alerted Mykel, and he turned and waited as a cart, pulled by
a single horse, eased through the open main gates on the south side of the
compound. Troral drove the cart, which held a load piled high and covered by
tarps carefully fastened in place — blankets, no doubt. The factor eased the
cart to a halt short of the front of the new barracks.

“Good
morning, Troral,” Mykel called cheerfully as the factor climbed off his cart.

Troral
finished tethering the leads to a stone post not intended for that purpose and
walked toward Mykel. He stopped a good yard away. “Good morning, Majer.”
Although the factor looked up at the taller lander, Troral’s eyes did not quite
meet Mykel’s.

“I
see you brought the blankets.”

“You
did say you’d be wanting them once the barracks were done, and I heard that you’d
be moving here in the next few days. That’d be telling me the barracks were
done, or near enough.”

Mykel
caught, not with his eyes, but with his senses, feelings of absolute fear that
even permeated the yellowish brown aura of the mastercrafter. Was it still his
reputation as a dagger of the ancients? “Near enough. I’ll write out the
authorization. You’ll have to draw the golds against the Cadmian letter of
credit.”

“I
figured as much, what with you being in Tempre so long. True that you had to
lay waste to the place?”

Mykel
laughed gently. “Not even close. We did kill a number of rebels, but there was
only a little damage to one building. I doubt that most people even lost a
copper or more than a little sleep.”

“Said
you wiped out companies and companies of the regional alectors’ mounted
rifles.” Troral’s tone was dogged.

“We
did wipe out three companies, but that fight took place outside Tempre.”

“I
figured you weren’t the type to do that — hurt folks not involved, I mean — but
people were saying ...”

“We
didn’t have much choice. They attacked us in the middle of the night.” That was
a slight exaggeration. It had been two glasses before dawn, but Mykel didn’t
want to get into details. “How have things been here?”

Troral
shook his head. “Weren’t for you Cadmians, times’d be terrible. After what
those rebels did ... be months, seasons maybe, before anyone will be able to
sell anything to the regional alector again. Terrible mess out there.”

Mykel
wondered if the Duarches would even bother to replace the regional alector, and
if so, when. “I can see that will be a problem.” He smiled politely. “I do have
a list of other goods that we’ll be needing for the compound.”

Troral
did not look pleased, merely less unhappy. That didn’t surprise Mykel. In more
than two seasons of working with the factor, he’d never seen more than a
momentary smile.

Mykel
handed Troral the list. “If you could give me a bid in the next few days ...”

“That
I can do, Majer. That I can.” Troral folded the paper and tucked it away. “Now
where do you want the blankets?”

“In
the barracks here, in the front bay for now.” For all the factor’s outward
cheerfulness, Mykel could still sense the man’s fear, and it was clearly a fear
of Mykel. Yet Mykel had never ever threatened anyone in Hyalt, even indirectly.

Mykel
had the feeling the day was going to be very long.

Dainyl
had requested that Wyalt pick him up at the house with the duty coach at a
glass before dawn. While he hated losing that much sleep, or causing the duty
driver to do so, the sun rose a good four glasses earlier in Alustre, and
leaving even as early as he planned would put him in Alustre in very late
midmorning. He still disliked using the duty coach to take him to and from his
house, but at such early hours, since he’d neglected to make advance
arrangements with his usual transport, the hacker Barodyn, his choices were to
use the duty coach or to walk.

When
Dainyl stepped out through the gates of his front courtyard on Quattri morning,
he wore the traveling uniform of a Myrmidon officer — a blue flying jacket over
a shimmercloth tunic of brilliant blue, both above dark gray trousers, with a
heavy dark gray belt that held his lightcutter sidearm. On his collar were the
single green-edged gold stars of a marshal. Inside his uniform tunic were two
envelopes — one containing Alcyna’s promotion to submarshal in Elcien, and the
second containing Majer Noryan’s appointment and promotion to submarshal in
Alustre.

Wyalt
was waiting. “Good morning, Marshal. The Hall of Justice, sir?”

“There’s
nowhere else in Elcien I’d be headed this early.” Dainyl climbed into the
coach.

Wyalt
swung the coach back around a side street and then turned west on the
boulevard, the main thoroughfare that ran down the middle of the isle from the
bridge in the east to the gates at the Myrmidon compound at the west end of the
isle. As they passed the public gardens of the Duarch, Dainyl glanced out, but
in the predawn darkness only the outlines of the elaborate topiary were
visible, and the life-sized pteridon looked to be next to the long hedge
sculpted into the likeness of two sandoxen and a set of transport coaches, when
in fact they were separated by a good fifty yards. Beyond the gardens were the
Palace of the Duarch on the south side of the boulevard and the Hall of Justice
on the. north. The Hall’s golden eternastone glowed to Dainyl’s Talent, even in
the darkness.

Wyalt
brought the coach to a smooth stop at the base of the wide golden marble steps
of the Hall of Justice.

After
emerging from the coach, and nodding to the driver, Dainyl hurried up the steps
and through the goldenstone pillars that marked the outer rim of the receiving
rotunda. From there he crossed the green and gold marble floor of the rotunda,
the sound of his boots lost in the stillness before dawn. At a pillar beyond
the dais where, later in the day, petitioners would assemble, he cloaked
himself in a Talent-illusion, out of habit, since no one was nearby. Then he
turned the lighttorch bracket, and the solid stone shifted to one side,
revealing an entry and a set of steps leading downward and lit by lighttorches.
He closed the entry behind himself and made his way down the steps, turning
right at the bottom to follow a stonewalled corridor.

Before
he reached the doorway to the Table chamber on the north side, a sleepy-eyed
young alector appeared.

“Oh
... Marshal... I had not heard you would be here so early. Let me tell the
guards.”

“Guards?”

“Yes,
sir. We now have our own guards here. We’ve been getting too many wild
translations, and more than a few renegades from Ifryn. Oh ... when do you
expect to return?”

“If
all goes well, later today.”

The
aide to the High Alector stepped forward and released the hidden Talent lock,
then stepped into the foyer, lit by a single lighttorch. Before opening the
second door, he called out, “It’s Cartalyn.” After speaking, he released the
Talent lock on the second door and stepped into the Table chamber.

Dainyl
followed him, raising his Talent shields.

The
Table chamber walls were of white marble, the floor green. Two sets of double
lighttorches set five yards apart in bronze brackets on the side walls provided
the sole illumination to the underground chamber. Unlike other Table chambers,
there were no furnishings at all. The Table itself looked like any other Table
— a square polished stone pedestal in the center of the room that extended a
yard above the stone floor. The stone appeared black on the side, but the top
surface was mirrorlike silver. Each side of the tablelike pedestal was three
yards. The other aspect of the Table, perceived only through Talent, was the
purple glow that emanated from it.

Two
guards in dark purple sat on stools beside the doorway, facing the Table. Each
carried a lightcutter sidearm. Dainyl recognized one of them, a former Myrmidon
who had served fifty years before requesting a stipend.

“Marshal,
sir... congratulations.”

“Thank
you, Tregaryt. Have you had any problems on this watch?”

“No,
sir. Had a wild translation yesterday. Vrityst had to cut down a fellow with a
Myrmidon guard blade on Duadi.”

Dainyl
shook his head. “I’ll be back later today. I’d appreciate your being a bit
careful.” Never before in the history of Acorus had guards been stationed — or
necessary — inside a Table chamber. Even before now, Dainyl had not taken Table
travel casually, not when some of the Recorders of Deeds had backed Brekylt and
tried to create fatal “accidents” for Dainyl when he had been translating. Now
he also had to worry about emerging from a translation and being “accidentally”
shot if he did not maintain Talent shields every moment.

With
a smile at the guards, Dainyl stepped up onto the Table, immediately
concentrating through his Talent on the darkness beneath and within the Table.
He dropped through the silvered surface and into ...

...the
intense chill of purplish blackness that permeated every span of his body,
despite his uniform and flying jacket. Although he saw, not with his eyes, but
his Talent, he extended his senses toward the dark gray locator, bordered in
purple, that identified Alustre. He ignored the stronger and closer locators of
Tempre, bright blue, and the crimson-gold of Dereka, instead pressing himself
toward the more distant wedge of dark gray.

Other
locators swirled by — wedges of amber, brilliant yellow, green, gray ... Well
beyond stretched a distant purple-black wedge — the long translation tube back
to Ifryn, the tube that all too many Ifrits were bribing and forcing their way
into, knowing that Ifryn was dying and that there was too little time
remaining.

With
the usual suddenness that ended all translations, the silver barrier seemed to
flash toward Dainyl, hurling him through it.

Dainyl
stood on yet another Table in another windowless chamber. He had made the
translation so swiftly that only the slightest hint of frost had appeared on
his flying jacket and uniform, before vanishing.

Dainyl
held his Talent shields, but the pair of guards in black and silver uniforms
waiting and watching did not even move as he descended from the Table. Unlike
the Table chamber in Elcien, a set of black-and-silver-bordered hangings
adorned the walls, and each hanging contained a scene featuring an alector. A
long black chest stood against the wall opposite the single entrance — a square
arch, in which a solid oak door was set, and on each side of which sat a guard.

A
younger alector in the purple-trimmed green of a Recorder of Deeds stepped
forward. “Marshal Dainyl, welcome to Alustre. We had not expected you, but you
are more than welcome anytime. I am Retyl, Zorater’s successor.” Behind Retyl’s
modest shields lay apprehension.

“Thank
you, Retyl.” Dainyl smiled politely. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. As a
dutiful recorder, I’m more than certain that you will do your best to maintain
the stability of the grid, unlike the late recorder in Hyalt.”

“Absolutely,
sir.”

Dainyl
could read the consternation behind the calm expression on Retyl’s face, but
only continued to smile as he walked to the chamber door.

On
each side of the arch in the hallway outside were another pair of alectors, also
wearing black and silver uniforms. They did not speak as Dainyl departed,
walking to the end of the corridor and up the stairs to the main level.