Soarers Choice (55 page)

“That
depends. If you as High Alector draw the golds personally, the ledgers will
only show that the golds were paid to you. If you transfer funds to another
account in Justice, say to the Marshal of Myrmidons, then the ledgers would
show that.”

“I’d
like to see the records for that account for the past few years.”

“Yes,
Highest.” Luftyne glanced to Adya. “According to the Code of Accounts set forth
by the Duarches, discretionary accounts may only be reviewed by the chief of
accounts, the High Alector who has control of the account, and the Duarch to
whom that High Alector reports.”

“By
your leave?” offered Adya.

“By
my leave,” Dainyl replied.

Only
when the study door had closed behind Adya did Luftyne open the smaller ledger
and set it before Dainyl. “Did you wish me to explain from the beginning of
this year?”

“First,
let me ask something. Could I spend all the golds in this account on myself?”

“Yes,
sir. As High Alector, you receive two thousand golds a year. For a High
Alector, that is often insufficient, particularly if one must host the Duarches
often.”

Dainyl
hadn’t even thought about entertaining — or that it might be part of the
position of High Alector. But then, who had paid for the time when Brekylt had
hosted him and Alcyna?

“As
you will see, sir, High Alector Zelyert drew only a few hundred golds for
personal use, but his predecessor drew a great deal more. That was many years
ago, of course.”

“Perhaps
you should go over the expenditures for this year.”

“Yes,
sir. There are only a few expenditures every year. The first use of funds did
not occur until the third of Duem, and that was a transfer of two hundred golds
to the High Alector personally, with the note that it represented coming-travel
and entertainment expenses.”

“Are
there any expenditures or transfers of funds to other High Alectors?”

Luftyne
frowned, fleetingly, before she replied. “There was a transfer of two thousand
golds to the High Alector of Engineering on the thirty-third of Duem. That was
for engineering services and equipment.” Luftyne laid the ledger flat and
pointed to the entry.

Dainyl
scanned the page, noting that the next entry on the fifteenth of Quattrem was a
transfer of one thousand golds to the Marshal of Myrmidons’ account for
“expenses relating to Dramur.” Other entries of smaller amounts ranged from ten
golds for a matched pair of bays for the High Alector’s coach to thirty golds
for shimmersilk for ceremonial garments. In mid-Octem, Zelyert had also
transferred five hundred golds from the discretionary account to the Hall of
Justice operating account for paying and equipping the new Table guards.

Finally,
Dainyl looked up from the ledger. “I’ll need to study this in greater detail,
but that will do for now. Thank you.” He still needed to think out what he was
going to say when he met with Alseryl later in the day.

“Whatever
the Highest requires.” The accounting chief rose, bowed, and backed out of the
private study.

Before
Dainyl had a chance to puzzle through the implications of what the
discretionary ledger had revealed or to think about how best to deal with
Alseryl, Chastyl knocked.

“Come
in.” Dainyl did not stand.

“You
wanted me, sir.”

“Yes.
You’d asked about the Blackstear Table. The Myrmidons can ferry five guards up
tomorrow morning. The marshal will supply two Myrmidon trainees, but that means
you’ll need to designate three other guards to go to Blackstear. They’ll need
to be at Myrmidon headquarters a half glass before dawn, dressed in
heavy-weather gear. It’s a long flight and a very cold one.”

Chastyl
swallowed. “Sir... we’re stretched thin here.”

“I’m
sure you are, but there are very few times that the marshal will be able to do
this.” Dainyl smiled. “I’m certain that you can work this out.”

“Yes,
sir.” The recorder bowed. “How long will they be there? Would both alectors and
alectresses be acceptable?”

“They
could be there for the rest of winter, and for Triem and possibly Quattrem. If
they’re qualified, I’m sure Delari would not have any problems.”

“There
will be three guards at Myrmidon headquarters, sir.”

As
Chastyl departed, Dainyl could sense both frustration and relief. He closed his
private study door. He needed some time to think.

While
Mykel had hoped to ride with one of the Third Battalion companies on Sexdi or
Septi, the ironworks disaster precluded his even considering going on a patrol
until Octdi. He had ridden through Iron
Ste.
a
number of times, and he had dispatched his letter to Rachyla through the wool
factor, although whether she would receive it and how she — or Amaryk — would
take it he could not predict. He had cut back on patrols to allow greater rest
for the men, and particularly for their mounts, in the event that Croyalt’s
information proved to be accurate. He could not dispense with them entirely,
not when the sandwolves seemed ever more daring.

A
half glass after morning muster, under a clear sky with a penetrating chill
wind blowing out of the northeast, Mykel was riding across the garrison
courtyard toward Undercaptain Dyarth and Thirteenth Company. His arm was still
in the sling, and bound, under his winter riding jacket, not because of the arm
itself, but to reduce pressure on the injured shoulder.

“Sir?”
Dyarth turned in the saddle.

“I’ll
be accompanying you today, Undercaptain.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Mykel
waited, his roan slightly back of the undercaptain’s chestnut, while Dyarth
received the reports from his squad leaders. He eased his mount beside the
chestnut when Thirteenth Company began to ride toward the gates.

Once
on the high road, Mykel turned his mount northward. His eyes lingered on the
green tower just to the west. Not for the first time, he wondered why the
windowless towers had even been built, but that mystery was one that could
wait.

They
had traveled half a vingt north on the high road before the undercaptain spoke.
“Sir... do you plan any changes to the patrol route or operations?”

“No,
Undercaptain. I’m just here to observe.” Mykel wasn’t all that sure he’d be
much good at more than that, but he’d spent far less time with Thirteenth
Company than some of the others. Besides, he’d wanted to get another look at
the area to the northeast of Iron Stem, the area patrolled by the company —
partly in response to inholder complaints about sandwolves.

“Do
you think that we’ll be seeing more and more of the sandwolves?”

“I
think it’s likely, but I can’t tell you why.” Mykel couldn’t, not without
revealing far more than he felt safe doing. The increased sandwolf attacks were
a way for the soarers to put pressure on the alectors, as had been the attack —
and it could have been nothing less — upon the ironworks.

“Right
north of town, once you get past the hovels, there’s nothing here except dry
grasslands.” Dyarth gestured at the sparse grasslands stretching away on both
sides of the high road. There were but few structures anywhere, and most looked
to be either abandoned or storage huts of some sort. “You can ride vingts and
not see anyone or a proper house.”

“It
looks desolate, all right.” Mykel’s Talent told him that there was more life
than met the eye. “But there has to be more than we see, or the holders
wouldn’t be here, and the sandwolves wouldn’t have enough to eat.”

“Can’t
be too much, sir, or they wouldn’t be raiding the inholders.”

“I
don’t know about that. The outholders seem to be a pretty tough group. Maybe
the sandwolves find the pickings easier close to town.”

Dyarth
frowned, then replied, “That could be, and they want us to take care of the
problem so that they don’t have to work as hard as the outholders.”

The
patrol followed the high road four vingts north before turning eastward on one
of the holder access lanes, although it was almost a true road, wide enough for
two mounts comfortably abreast, unlike many, which were barely able to handle a
single mount or a narrow cart.

To
Mykel, the farther north and east they rode, away from the high road, the more
the air smelled and tasted metallic, as ‘if a cold and rusty sabre had been
laid on his tongue and he’d inhaled deeply.

The
patrol had covered another two vingts, and the winter sun was well clear of the
Aerial Plateau, whose cliffs ran like a wall across the eastern horizon, when
Mykel began to sense a faint violet-gray — the aura of sandwolves — as well as
something else, a blackish gray that he had not sensed before. His best
judgment was that the sandwolves and the other creatures were at least half a
vingt ahead, probably in the vale to the northeast of the lane that followed
the ridgelines of the hills.

“There’s
something ahead,” Mykel said quietly. “I’d suggest ordering ‘ready rifles.’“

“Yes,
sir.” Dyarth turned in the saddle. “Company! Ready rifles!”

“Ready
rifles!” echoed the squad leaders.

The
blackish gray aura grew stronger, but not that of the sandwolves, as Thirteenth
Company followed the holders’ road.

Then,
as the road edged more to the north and to the side of the ridge, Mykel caught
a glimpse of animals below, creatures he’d never seen before.

“We’ll
need to halt at the curve in the lane ahead,” he told Dyarth. “That will give
us the best vantage and the high ground.”

“Ah...”

“For
whatever those are, and the sandwolves that are stalking them,” replied Mykel,
still watching the black-coated animals a good two hundred yards downslope.

“Company!
Halt!”

The
creatures did not startle, although several glanced up the slope toward the
Cadmian force as the troopers reined up.

A
pair of males edged toward each other. Mykel assumed they were males from the
curled black horns that glittered cruelly on the front edges, as if they had
been sharpened like a sabre. Black wool of some sort covered their
two-yard-long bodies, and wide and thick shoulders added to their massive and
menacing aura. Abruptly the two broke off whatever dispute or dominance
conflict that they had barely begun and turned.

Mykel
could sense the gray-violet aura of at least one sandwolf even before the
creature appeared out of the brush to the east of the small flock. Its long
crystal fangs were evident from where Mykel watched as it broke into a run
toward one of the smaller black-coated creatures trailing the others.

A
large male charged from the flock toward the sandwolf. Mykel didn’t think that
the smaller creature — although it wasn’t that much less in size and perhaps
even closer in weight — had much chance against the sandwolf and its fangs.
Yet, a moment before the two met, the black male lowered his shoulders and
horns, and then twisted his head.

The
sandwolf barely let out a howl as it was lifted off the ground and then flung
aside, partly disemboweled and dead before it could have realized what had
happened.

Mykel
swallowed. He could sense more sandwolves, not all that far to the east. He and
the company might well seem an easier target than the giant horned killer
sheep. “Stand by to fire! Sandwolves! To the south.”

“Staggered
line abreast! Stand by to fire!” echoed Dyarth.

Mykel
wasn’t certain how they had managed it, but less than a hundred yards downslope
and to the south of the company appeared a pack of the sandwolves. They were
moving at full speed, and that was faster than a galloping horse.

“Fire
at will!” snapped Dyarth.

Behind
the sandwolves, Mykel could sense one of the sanders, but what could he do?
Could he will the bullets of another Cadmian to a target?

“Over
there!” he called to the ranker slightly behind him. “The sander, the small
figure. Fire at it.”

“Yes,
sir!”

As
the man fired, Mykel concentrated on him, his rifle, and the bullet in the
chamber. The shot went wide, and Mykel concentrated once more as the ranker fired.
All the shots in the magazine missed, and Mykel could feel that it had taken
some effort from him.

As
the Cadmian reloaded, Mykel decided to concentrate on the bullet alone.

The
third shot struck the sander in the shoulder, twisting it down. Mykel could
feel the loss of lifeforce and death. Immediately the creature began to
disintegrate. Several of the sandwolves had gone down as well, but with the
death of the sander, the pack broke and turned.

In
moments, the Cadmians were once more alone on the herder’s road. Below them,
the black creatures grazed, as if nothing had happened.

“That
was strange,” Dyarth said, reining up beside Mykel. After a moment, he went on.
“Is there any reason not to continue the patrol, sir?”

“I
think continuing the patrol would be a good idea, Undercaptain. I don’t think
we’ll see any more sandwolves very soon, but you never know.”

“Yes,
sir.” The undercaptain turned in the saddle. “Company! Double column! Forward!”

Mykel
and Thirteenth Company only rode another vingt, down through a shallow vale and
up onto another ridgeline, before Mykel saw five riders headed toward them. As
they drew closer, he recognized the first rider — Outholder Croyalt.

“Have
the company halt.”

“Company!
Halt!”

Mykel
rode forward to greet the outholder, reining up yards short of the older man.
“I heard rifles, Majer.”

“We
ran across some sandwolves — and some other creatures,” Mykel replied. “Black
and wooly, and the males have sharp curled horns.”

“The
nightsheep.” Croyalt nodded.

“You
call those sheep?”

“They
have a coat — the wool’s more like armor. I’d wager it would make a sturdy
cloth.” The outholder laughed. “It won’t happen in my lifetime, though. You
can’t domesticate them, and the flesh is poisonous to nearly any animal.
Nightsheep can eat anything that’s green, but they seem to prefer the
quarasote.”