Alector's Choice (20 page)

Yet another two weeks
had passed in Dra-muria, and Dainyl knew little more than he had earlier. His
shoulder had healed, and a week before, he had sent off a dispatch to the
marshal noting Fifteenth Company’s successful destruction of one rebel force
and the capture of smuggled Cadmian rifles, as well as reporting that he and

Falyna had been fired
on and that the attackers had been destroyed. He had sent a copy to the High
Alector of Justice, and kept one for his own personal records. He had not
mentioned the ancient tunnel, since that would only have confused matters even
more.

From what Dainyl had
seen, there was no real revolt in progress, just the normal dissatisfactions of
landers and in-digens who thought that they should have more than the land and
their labors had produced. According to the two Cadmian majers, there had been
scant progress in rounding up rebels. The captain in Jyoha had earlier reported
finding traces of raiders, but had not yet been successful in running them
down—unless he had done so in the last few days. Yet neither majer had
blundered enough for Dainyl to step in. He couldn’t very well overrule them and
take over because he thought they were in the process of creating a mess.

That the marshal and
the Highest were involved hi some sort of machination was all too clear, but
Dainyl had yet to figure out why and for what purpose, because neither would
have hazarded their positions for anything trivial, and it made no sense for
either to scheme to become Duarch, because the Duarch had to be
loyalty-imprinted, and neither the marshal nor the Highest would want to lose
that much personal freedom. It almost argued that they were acting on behalf of
the Duarch, but Dainyl certainly couldn’t assume that. Nor could he assume otherwise.

Then there was
Lystrana. Alectors were not supposed to hold the romantic notions of the
landers, but Dainyl had to admit he missed her, and not just for her intellect
and judgment.

He couldn’t do much
about the plots in Elcien, but perhaps he could do better with the ancients.
Although he’d sensed them—or one of them, the one with the feel of golden green
Talent—almost daily for a time, on the three occasions he had flown out there
they had vanished, with no traces, before he had arrived.

On Quinti morning,
well before dawn on a day that would be cold and clear—at least in the
morning—Dainyl dressed carefully, with skintight undergarments he had not worn
in years, designed for the times when he had flown dispatches to Blackstear and
Northport, and with heavier gloves and a cold weather flying cap. He fastened a
waist pouch to his belt and an empty water bottle. He also checked the crystal
storage of his sidearm. It was full.

After an early and
hearty breakfast in the officers’ mess, where he filled the bottle with ale, he
made his way out to the courtyard to meet Quelyt. Falyna had yet to return from
delivering Dainyl’s dispatch to the marshal in Elcien.

“Good morning,”
Dainyl said cheerfully. “Good time and weather for flying.”

“This early… does
that mean that you want to go back to that tunnel up on the peak?”

“More than that,”
replied Dainyl, with a rueful smile. “I want you to drop me off there and come
back and get me up just before sunset. The air should be still by then,
shouldn’t it?”

“Usually, sir. But
you can never tell.”

“If it’s not, you’ll
have to come back first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Hope we can get back
this evening. Otherwise, it’ll be a long and cold night up there.” Quelyt
laughed.

“I’ve seen colder,
but you’re right.”

Quelyt adjusted the
second saddle, then turned to the colonel. “Anytime, sir.”

The pteridon lowered
its shoulders and neck. The ranker eased into his harness and saddle, and
Dainyl followed. There was almost no wind, and Dainyl could sense the extra
Talent-draw it took the pteridon to get airborne. Still, before long, Dramuria
lay beneath and behind them. In the chill gray air, with the glow of the sun
barely touching the eastern horizon—the waters of the gulf between Dramur and
Corus—the flight was smooth.

Less than ten vingts
from their destination, the sun burst into the morning sky, and the
MurianMountains stood etched against the darker silver-green sky to the west.
Despite the chill on his face, Dainyl couldn’t help but smile at the beauty of
the vista before him.

As they circled in to
land at the end of the short bluff, Dainyl extended his Talent as much as he
could, but did not sense either of the ancients. The landing was far smoother
than the earlier one, but Quelyt had still air and was more familiar with the site.
Dainyl eased himself out of the harness and dismounted, stepping away from the
pteridon.

“A half glass before
sunset, sir? You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.” Dainyl
gestured at the steep slope below. “If the indigens could climb up that, I
could always climb down.”

“I’ll be here, sir.”
Quelyt’s tone showed that he didn’t like the idea of the colonel climbing down
a mountain. “Half a glass before sunset.”

Dainyl nodded and
stepped as far back as he could and crouched. There wasn’t that much extra
space for the pteri-don’s wings.

Once Quelyt was
airborne, he made a circle, waved, and headed back to Dramuria.

Dainyl could sense
that there was no one in the short tunnel, either in the cavelike outer section
or in the short tunnel beyond. Because he did not know just how much the
ancient creatures might perceive, he did not enter the cave or tunnel, but
explored the area around the small bluff. After a quarter glass, he found a
hollow space between two boulders only a few yards downslope, if on the colder
north side. Others had rested there, it appeared, from the flattened and
smoothed appearance of the reddish sandy surface, but not recently.

He hoped that he was
not on an idiot’s quest, sitting near the top of a peak, in winter no less, if
a far warmer winter than in Blackstear or Scien. Yet it was clear that the
ancients were shy and skittish—or cautious—and he could not escape the feeling
that they were somehow involved with some of the strange and unsettling
conditions in Dramur.

Or did he feel that
because he needed some other cause for the strangeness than the sense that the
marshal and the Highest were gaming on some deeper level than he could imagine?
Or that he needed to rale out the ancients in order to deal with the marshal—if
he even could?

The sun climbed
higher, and Dainyl waited, but there was no sign of the ancients—or of anything
else. To pass the time and to get some warmth from the sun, he eased into the
light, but only far enough that he could not be seen from the unnatural cave
above. From there, sitting on an outcropping, he could just see the charred
trunks of the pines from where the locals had shot him. Why had they done that?
Except for the Reillies in the north, and a few other isolated groups, most
landers and indigens knew that attacking a Myrmidon or an alector would result
in the destruction of the attacker. Alectors could never show vulnerability,
and the response was always immediate and absolute.

How many times would
he have to wait on a peak to see if an ancient would appear? Did he have that
much time? What else could he do?

The sun climbed
higher. Dainyl doubted that the Highest or the marshal had meant for him to
undertake exactly this kind of observation.

Noon came and went,
and Dainyl drank some of the ale from the water bottle at his belt. He should
have felt that he was wasting his time, but the sun on the rocks and the
insulated clothing kept him from feeling too chill, and the view of the east
side of Dramur was indeed stunning in the full sunlight. He could almost
forget, for a few moments, why he was there and what lay waiting for him back
in Dramuria.

Abruptly, he could
sense the red-violet of Talent, and more than one being. He glanced around, but
he could see nothing, although the feel of the red-violet grew increasingly
stronger.

He turned to see two
squat figures, almost caricatures of indigens, with rough and rocky tannish
skin into which crystals were embedded, appear to ooze out of the very rocks to
his right, taking shape less than three yards away.

Dainyl moved quickly,
and the light-cutter was in his left hand, aimed at the creatures. They had no
necks to speak of, flat noses that barely protruded, slit mouths, and eyes
almost flush with their flat faces. Although they wore no clothes, they had no
obvious external organs.

Were these the
ancients?

They did not move
forward, and neither did he.

Then, golden green
Talent-aura cascaded across the bluff.

Dainyl looked up to
see the golden green sphere hovering less than five yards away, slightly above
his eye height, and within it, a miniature figure, resembling a lander female,
but no more than half the size of a large lander. The soaring small woman was
winged, and an iridescence shrouded her figure, enough that it served as well
as clothing.

As you are, you do
not belong here. Although the soaring creature did not speak aloud, the words
were clear within Dainyl’s mind.

“As I am? What else
would I be?”

That is for you to
decide. If you do not change, you will die. You have been warned.

Then, she was gone.
Or rather, she had vanished to sight, although his Talent showed that she had
risen and headed toward the tunnel. In just moments, she had vanished to both
sight and Talent.

Dainyl blinked. In
the time that he had spoken to the soarer, as good a term as any, the two squat
creatures had vanished back into the rocks. There was no trace of aura or
Talent.

He shook his head.
Had they really been there?

Slowly, he climbed
back up to the bluff. There was no reason not to enter the tunnel, not now. He
examined every span of the tunnel, but there were no tracks on the dust and
sand except those of his own boots, from the last time he had been in the
tunnel. He studied the square mirror on the floor, testing it, tapping it
gently, probing as he could with his Talent. No matter what he did, it seemed
to be but a mirror, but why was it on the floor and not upon the wall?

He straightened. He
could sense the Talent-residue of the soarer, but not of the squat creatures.
What were they? Creatures who served, like pteridons? Who traversed the earth
and stone in the fashion that pteridons traveled the sky?

How could he possibly
tell either the marshal or the Highest what had happened? Or Quelyt or Falyna?
He couldn’t—especially about the warning, a cryptic statement made without
words and received through Talent, he surmised. Received by a Myrmidon colonel
known not to have that degree of Talent, tracking a creature that had
supposedly died centuries before.

His laugh was soft
and sardonic. He’d wanted to find the ancients, and they had found him, and his
discovery seemed almost as useless as not having made it.

If you do not change,
you will die. What had she meant? How could he find out? And what had she meant
by “you”—Dainyl or all alectors?

He still had a long
afternoon ahead of him. He looked to the north and west, but outside of a
slight haze, the sky was clear. He might get back to Dramuria by sunset, for
all the good it would do him.

Fifteenth Company did
not reach the

Cadmian compound in
Dramuria until late afternoon on Sexdi in a light rain. Mykel had not pushed
his men; he’d seen no reason to do so. Although he’d come up with a rationale
for leaving Jyoha, he wasn’t looking forward to facing Majer Vaclyn. He had
unsaddled the chestnut, carted his gear back to the officers’ quarters, and was
finishing drying and oiling his rifle—the rifle he had taken from the dead
Vyschyl—when someone was knocking on the doorway.

“Yes?” Mykel set the
rifle in the weapons rack and walked to the door, opening it.

Jiosyr, Vaclyn’s
senior squad leader, stood there. “Majer Vaclyn would like to see you
immediately, sir. In the headquarters building. He said that anything else
could wait.”

“I’ll be right there,
Jiosyr.”

“I’ll wait out here
for you, sir.”

Mykel shut the
quarters door. He debated changing out of his damp uniform, but decided against
it. He did hang up his soaked riding jacket to dry before turning and leaving
the quarters. He had the copy of the letter from the grower in his tunic, but
his guts told him that it was better not to show it to the majer. He would wait
and see.

Jiosyr followed him
all the way to the compound headquarters.

Mykel found the small
study where the majer waited, his door open. “Sir, you requested my presence
immediately.”

“You do understand
the meaning of that word, unlike many others. Please come in and close the
door, Captain.”

Vaclyn did not rise
from behind the desk where he was seated.

Mykel stepped inside,
closing the door. He remained standing, respectfully.

“Did you receive
orders to return to Dramuria, Captain?” Vaclyn’s voice was mild, but Mykel
sensed the anger beneath. But then, the majer seemed to be angry most of the
time.

“Your last orders to
me, sir, were to report to you as ex-peditiously as possible once I had dealt
with the rebels. With the possible exception of one man, we wiped out all those
riders I had reported. Since one man is not a rebel force, I believe that we
accomplished the goals you set forth, and I am here reporting to you.”

“You… wiped them
out?”

“Yes, sir. This
group, as I had reported earlier, was not well armed. They had but four rifles,
some crossbows, along with spears and blades. I did bring those back for your
inspection, sir. They refused to surrender. They attacked before I could even
offer terms. We had no choice but to fight.”

The majer stared for
a time at Mykel. Finally, he shook his head. “Captain, you are a difficult
officer. You complain about your orders, but always so politely and courteously
that few would even consider your reports a complaint, yet you find rebels where
no one else can, and you dispatch them… expeditiously.” He frowned. “What were
your losses?”

“Three in the
skirmish, sir, and one from a chest wound later.”

“You have lost almost
ten men, Captain. No one else has lost any.”

“That is true, sir.
We have also fought more, and we have killed close to a hundred and fifty
rebels and raiders.” Mykel did not point out that no one else had discovered
any rebels.

“Ten for one is
barely adequate for a Cadmian force.”

“Yes, sir.” Mykel
kept his voice level, even pleasant. “We’ll do better in the future.”

“I expect no less.
Colonel Herolt expects no less.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the state of
matters in Jyoha?”

“It was quiet when we
left. I don’t think they believed that we could find the raiders, or that the
raiders would fight to the death. The people didn’t want to look in our
direction.”

“Good. They need to
show a little respect.” Vaclyn frowned. “Still… we cannot abandon Jyoha for
long, or there will be more raiders and rebels. After your efforts, it might be
wiser to send another company, rather than send Fifteenth Company back.” He
smiled.

Mykel didn’t care for
the smile. He waited.

“Since you seem able
to find things that no one else can, Captain, I am reassigning Fifteenth
Company to patrolling the mine road and providing support to the local
Cadmians. • Prisoners are disappearing, and no one can find them. It appears to
be the sort of mission at which you excel. Your men may have tomorrow off. Your
new duties will begin on Octdi.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are riding on
the cliff edge of insubordination.”

“Yes, sir. I will
endeavor to be more tactful in the future, sir.” Mykel wasn’t about to protest,
not when things could have been much worse.

“That would be a good
beginning, Captain.”

“Yes, sir. By your
leave, sir?”

“You may go. We’ll go
over your new duties tomorrow, at the second glass of the afternoon.”

Mykel bowed, then
left. He needed to know more about what was going on with the mine. Prisoners
disappearing?

He wasn’t certain
whether he liked that or the majer’s smile less.

Rather than return to
his quarters, he headed for the officers’ mess. He hoped to find one of the
Cadmian captains— before he talked to Kuertyl or had to talk to the majer again
about Fifteenth Company’s new assignment. When he entered the mess, he saw
Kuertyl and Heransyr engaged in a conversation, one that Mykel didn’t wish to
join, not yet, but Meryst was sitting by himself, looking as though he might be
almost ready to leave.

Mykel hurried over.
Meryst had seemed slightly more approachable than Benjyr. “Could I join you for
a moment?”

Meryst looked up,
surprised. “Certainly. I had thought you were up north in Jyoha.”

“We just returned a
glass ago.” Mykel eased into the chair across from Meryst.

“How did Jyoha go?”

“Not well,” Mykel
admitted. “We tracked down a group of raiders. They attacked us rather than
surrender. They killed one trooper with a crossbow right off, and…” He
shrugged. “When it was all over, most of them were dead.”

“You don’t sound
pleased about that.”

“They were hungry men
forced off their lands, most of them, anyway. I was ordered to capture or kill
them—or face court-martial. It wasn’t put quite that way.”

Meryst’s ironic laugh
was sympathetic. “It never is.”

“So… now we’ve been
assigned to the mine road and supporting you. I hoped you could tell me what
you know, what we shouldn’t do—that sort of thing. Majer Vaclyn was telling me
that prisoners are disappearing. We’re supposed to help so that doesn’t
happen.” Mykel gave a crooked smile. “I have a feeling that it’s not that
simple.”

Meryst laughed. “You
have that right. The prisoners are disappearing in the mine. They’re counted
when they enter, and they’re counted when they leave. If anyone is missing,
that crew is cordoned off, and the tunnels they were working are searched. So
are all the other tunnels. We’ve lost ten miners in the last two weeks. No
bodies, and no one saw them go.”

“Is this something
new?”

Meryst gnawed his
lower lip with his upper teeth. “There have been disappearances before, in the
mines, not with prisoners climbing the stockade or jumping from the bridge. But
only one or two a season, if that. These numbers… there’s no record of anything
like this.”

The mess steward
arrived with a mug of ale. “There is only flatfish tonight, sir.”

“Whatever there is,
thank you.”

The steward bowed and
hurried away.

Mykel took a swallow
of the ale. His throat was dry, and while fish was better than bread and cheese
and dried meat, it wasn’t that much better. “Do you have any idea why or how?”

Meryst shook his
head.

Mykel could tell that
the other man had an idea, but wasn’t about to share it. He’d either been
ordered not to say, or didn’t feel comfortable saying what he felt. Mykel would
have wagered on the second. “Have you been taking fire from rebels in the hills
around the mines?”

“Once in a while, but
no one’s been hit. Not yet.”

“You think that
they’re shooting more than they used to?”

“Until a season ago,
or less, no one ever shot at us,” Meryst replied.

“What’s going on, do
you think?”

“I wish I knew. The
first thing was the prisoners disappearing. That started at the end of summer.
Maybe sooner. I was on furlough for two weeks. Then some of the prisoners
wouldn’t go into the mines. They said it wasn’t safe, but no one had been hurt.
We had to flog a bunch.” Meryst’s face tightened as he spoke. “Then more of
them started trying to escape.”

“Why would the
seltyrs get involved?”

“The seltyrs? What do
they have to do with the mines?”

“Seltyr Ubarjyr was
outfitting an entire company of mounted rifles…” Mykel went on to explain what
had happened in Enstyla. He was surprised that Meryst didn’t know.

“I’d heard that you’d
had trouble up in Enstyla,” replied Meryst. “When I asked Majer Herryf, he just
said that you’d taken care of the problem. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

Mykel paused. Since
Enstyla, Fifteenth Company had spent almost no time in Dramuria. It was
possible word hadn’t gotten out. “Why would the seltyrs care about escaped
prisoners?”

Meryst laughed. “How
many do you think they put there? Ubarjyr was the worst.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not all the bat shit
goes to Southgate and the Vedra river ports. The bigger growers get some of it.
The soil isn’t great here, you know. There’s an unspoken agreement. It’s not
written anywhere. The more miners that come from a sel-tyr’s holdings and
retainers, the more they get. It’s a good way to get rid of anyone who
complains and to get more of the bat shit for worked-out lands. The council
director and the director of the mine just look the other way. They always need
more miners. They’ve found another one of the caves, but they don’t have enough
miners or golds to open it yet. That’s what the word around Dramuria is,
anyway.”

“Doesn’t the justicer
have to find them guilty of something?”

“The justicer belongs
to the growers. Always has.”

“You think Ubarjyr
was building a private force to protect himself?”

Meryst shrugged. “I
don’t know. It’s possible.”

The longer Mykel was
in Dramur, the less he liked what he was discovering. But it had often been
that way on deployments. That was why Cadmians were deployed. Still…

“There’s not much I
can tell you about the seltyrs. They keep things to themselves,” added Meryst.

“Is Rachyla—the
seltyr’s daughter—still in confinement?”

“You interested in
her?” Meryst grinned.

“She’s good-looking,”
Mykel admitted, “but I think she knows more than she’s saying. I’d like to talk
to her, but… if I go through Majer Vaclyn…” He shrugged.

Meryst nodded. “I can
see that. How about the first glass after muster tomorrow? We take over the
guard then.”

“I wouldn’t want to
cause you trouble.” Much as he wanted to see Rachyla, he did not want to put
Meryst on his majer’s bad side.

“There won’t be. Your
majer will be talking to Herryf that early. I’ll let the guards know you’re trying
to find out something to help us all from getting shot. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“I hope so. I think
she knows where the rifles came from. If we could find that out…”

Meryst smiled. “It
would help.”

“It would. Thank
you.” Mykel decided to change the subject. “If I could ask one other thing. How
have you been handling road patrols on the mine road?”

“We send a patrol up
front, first, or we did. Thirteenth Company has been doing that lately, gives
us more men to watch the prisoners…”

As Meryst talked, Mykel
listened.