Scepters (42 page)

The
inn was the only building around the square that showed activity, but that was
because Fifth Company was quartered there.

Alucius
kept riding, trying to ignore the soreness throughout his body, and after his
second spirallike widening circuit around the square, he slowed his mount again
as he rode toward a wall that had once been whitewashed but which now needed
stucco in too many places and fresh whitewash everywhere. He could hear two
women talking. One was sobbing between words.

Alucius
used his Talent, trying to pick up the words.

“Why…
why… they killed our husbands… our sons… what did they do?”

“What
harm did the prophet do?”

What
could Alucius say to such words, when people had not seen the evidence before
their eyes? When people believed, they could not see what had happened. They
saw what they wanted to have seen.

“…have
nothing… nothing at all… no horses, no sheep, no goats… no sons…”

“…
followed the prophet and the lamaial struck him down… and we will never see the
True Duarchy and its prosperity…”

“We
will never see our sons, and for that I grieve far more…”

Alucius
held in a wince. He had crushed the revolt—or the invasion. He’d done it only
by the very method that he knew would cause the Lord-Protector unrest,
discontent, and lasting resentment. And Alucius had had absolutely no
choice—not that he could see. From the first moment he and his force had
arrived, they had been attacked, time after time, by Talent-washed rebels who
had fought poorly, but to the death.

And
he still had no idea why, not when so much death could only ruin a land, not
bring the kind of prosperity that the prophet had promised. The only thing he
had learned—really—had been in Adarat’s last words, “… Neither you nor your
ancient ones will prevail against the glory of Efra…”

Was
Efra the true name of the world from which the ifrits had come? And did that
pronunciation mean that somewhere on Corus another contingent of ifrits had
appeared?

Alucius
kept riding and watching and taking in what he saw—and worrying.

Salaan, Lanachrona

The
table displayed the image of a reddish hillside, the eastern side of which
appeared to have been cut away, with the section that had been cut away heaped
full of all sizes of boulders of redstone and sandstone. To the east of the
jumbled stone were several long and low unpainted structures.

The
Recorder looked up from the Table, and the scene that had been before him and
Tarolt vanished. “The majer has triumphed over Adarat and his Cadmians.”

“You
expected otherwise, Trezun? Those steers were not real Cadmians. Adarat was but
a shadow-Efran, certainly capable enough against un-Talented steers, but the
majer is more than that. Even so, he almost did not survive. He will not last
against a true Efran.”

“That
would seem to be so,” the Recorder replied.

“It
was not exactly a triumph for the majer and the Lord-Protector,” Tarolt pointed
out. “Hyalt lies in ruins, and we have most of the golds. The larger part of
the men and boys are dead, and all Corus will know the Lord-Protector as the
butcher of Hyalt. That is something that we can make sure all the world knows.”
With a smile, Tarolt stepped back from the Table.

“What
of the majer? If he comes back to Dekhron, especially as commander of the
Northern Guard… ?”

“We
have already taken steps to forestall that. It is likely he will go to
Southgate.”

“Do
you think the Lord-Protector will countenance that?”

“The
Lord-Protector cannot object to what he does not know. overcaptain Deen has
proved most helpful in conveying ideas to the marshals. He is so guileless and
thinks he is so clever. That is a weakness of so many steers. More important,
this Alucius could not withstand the crystal spear-thrower before, and there
are two in place there. Even if he can rally the Lord-Protector’s troops and
defeat the Regent, what does he gain?”

“A
substantial victory,” suggested Trezun.

“That
kind of victory is a triumph for us. The Lord-Protector has little more than
half the lancers he did two seasons ago. The southwest of Corus is weakened and
ready to accept any kind of peace after five years of bleeding warfare. Majer
Alucius cannot win without creating even more death and destruction, and that
is what we need. He can only triumph through destruction, and that paves the
way for us. People do not wish glorious and destructive
battles
.
They wish peace and prosperity, and so long as the cost is deferred, they will
not look beyond tomorrow.”

“What
of Waleryn?”

Tarolt
frowned. “You have great interest there. I hope that his building the locator
will not interfere—”

“I
instilled strong conditions that it should not interfere—”

“You
and Sensat and your concern about the scepters.”

“
We
do not
need
them, but
if we have them, then no lamaial or ancient one can use them,” Trezun pointed
out.

“You
have a point. Not the best, but a point, so long as it does not interfere with
the plan and the next translation. We must have more true Efrans here… and yet
so few wish to take
the
risk.”

“When
between a third and half perish? Or become wild translations without thought or
cognizance? Can you blame them?”

“When
our future is at stake? Yes… I can. And I will. Far more will perish if we do
not receive greater support. Yet each wishes another to take the risk.”

“You
were about to tell me how you think Waleryn will affect matters.” Trezun spoke
quickly. “Does he have the shadow matrices that he will require? One suitable
for Tyren?”

“He
has ten, and three would seem to match what he has scanned of the Praetor,
within acceptable parameters. He has also reported that the Praetor is coming
to Prosp to inspect the Table—before he heads to Passera to ready his forces
for the invasion of Deforya.”

“Deforya
it will be, then. That will create enough disruption for the next year, at
least.”

“Waleryn
is well on the way to positioning Tyren so that the Praetor will ask to use the
Table… Once that happens, in time, the Praetor will change his plans and concentrate
on taking Deforya. The landowners will have to fight, and they will lose. Then
Tyren will overreach himself and go south, and the plains will be filled with
chaos…”

“He
could head more directly west into Lanachrona.”

“He
could, and if Majer Alucius survives, no doubt we would have a larger and even
bloodier series of battles.”

“And
what will happen if… just if… Majer Alucius does survive and prosper? He seems
to have the luck of the hero or the lamaial.”

“Ah…
that is the beauty of it,” Tarolt replied. “The Regent must still reclaim
Harmony and Klamat. More unrest and destruction. Tyren will build larger armies
and rampage westward. While that goes on, few will notice what we do and what
we build, or that they act against themselves. Let them struggle with their
rifles and blades. Their puny rifles and blades.”

By
Duadi morning, there were people, mostly women, on the streets of Hyalt, and
some carts of produce had appeared. The two roadblocks across the high roads
had been torn down, and Feran was working with a group of younger and huskier
women to create the core of a mounted city patrol. There were enough spare
mounts for that.

By
midmorning, Alucius was sitting in the council chamber of Hyalt, a block off
the main square, interviewing women who seemed to have some courage and
intelligence, trying to use his Talent to find a handful to administer the
crippled town. After glancing over at Bakka, who held a marker, with a short
stack of paper before him on the table, Alucius tried not to shift his weight
too obviously in the chair as he waited for the next group of women to file
into the chamber.

Four
more women stepped inside the chamber, ushered by four lancers.

An
older gray-haired woman studied Alucius from the moment she entered the hall.
So did a blonde
woman
, although her observations
came from a lowered head and half-averted eyes. A black-haired, good-looking
woman with ruby lips surveyed Alucius and smiled. Unlike the others, she looked
well fed.

Alucius
cleared his throat. “Whatever happened here in Hyalt is over. What remains is
to rebuild the town and maintain order. Under the authority of the
Lord-Protector, I am talking to anyone who might be useful in this.” He paused,
looking for reactions.

“We’re
so fortunate to have your assistance,” began the attractive woman.

Alucius
almost winced at the feeling of hypocrisy and greed that radiated from her, but
he inquired politely, “Your name?”

“Sanaval,
sir.”

Alucius
turned to the lancer guards. “Take Sanaval and lock her away with the others we’re
sending north.”

The
woman’s mouth opened, almost wordlessly, as two of the lancers moved to flank
her.

“Every
syllable you said was false and deceptive,” Alucius replied. “Hyalt doesn’t
need your kind right now. Take her away.”

“Who
are you to judge?” asked the stern-faced, gray-haired woman.

“I’m
judging because someone has to administer Hyalt, and we need to find people who
can, because that is not our task.”

“Was
your task just to bring down death on our men and sons?” asked the thin
red-haired woman, almost hissing the words at Alucius.

He
turned, and his eyes flashed. He tried to keep from exploding with a rage that
had appeared within him, seemingly from nowhere. “Your men were so weak that
they gave up their families, gave up their work, and gave up their brains. They
attacked the Lord-Protector’s scouts. They killed traders bringing in goods,
perhaps even food. We did not ride here to bring death. We rode here to discover
why the people of Hyalt were driving out merchants and crafters and killing
strangers. When we got here, we, too, were attacked. Unlike the others, we
could fight back.” Alucius’s eyes fixed on the angry woman, and he projected
both power and assurance, trying to keep anger out of the sending. “There has
been enough killing. There has been too much. I
am
choosing—from among your people—who will administer Hyalt. Do you want to run
in fear from every man on a horse with a sword or a rifle?”

The
woman shrank back, and Alucius turned his attention back to the gray-haired
woman.

“They
were fools,” she admitted. “Did that give you the right to kill them?”

“Not
until they tried to kill us and every other stranger,” Alucius replied. “Not
until they refused to talk and only attacked. Do you think that was right? Was
it smart?”

“No.
I am only a woman who sells vegetables and fruits from a cart.”

“Do
you still have vegetables and fruits to sell?”

“Yes.”
The admission was wary.

“Then
you have more sense than most in Hyalt,” Alucius said dryly, “What is your
name?”

“Isaya.”

Alucius
nodded to Bakka, who inscribed the woman’s name.

“Where
do you live?”

“Off
north road. You’d know. Your men near-dragged me here.”

“Can
you run the market square? Make sure what’s sold is good?”

“Depends.
Can’t tell someone how many coins to charge…”

“No.
What’s charged has to be between buyer and seller. But Hyalt doesn’t need
spoiled meat or weeviled grain being sold as good.”

“Might
be able to do that… if we’ve got that patrol you promised…”

Alucius
nodded. Probably half of what he was trying to do wouldn’t work, but if he
could put together some sort of organization, maybe the women could sort it out
themselves as fall progressed into winter. He only knew that he had to try, and
that if he sorted out the truly rotten apples, or as many as he could, they
might have a chance.

His
eyes turned to the nervous blonde woman. “What do you do?”

“I’m
a seamstress… Leastwise, I was.”

Alucius
wondered how many more glasses and days he’d have to work on trying to give the
ruined town a chance at putting itself back together. It could take seasons to
do it right, but he didn’t have seasons. Besides, in the end, what was done
rested on the survivors in Hyalt.

But
he was still angry about how matters had turned out.

By
Sexdi, Alucius was feeling somewhat better, enough for a ride back out to the
western camp of the prophet and the site of the ruined temple. Feran insisted
on accompanying Alurius with the fourth and fifth squads of Fifth Company.
Behind the squads came a wagon, one filled with axes, bars, rock hammers, and
other tools, as well as some barrels of powder.

As
they passed the open and abandoned south gates of the encampment, with a cool
and blustery wind whipping around them, announcing the arrival of a cold fall
season, Feran glanced at Alucius. “You really think that you’ll find useful
supplies under all that rock?”

“I
hope so,” replied Alucius.

“I
know you. You have to be more than hoping.”

“There’s
one thing we haven’t resolved, and I should have thought of it earlier,”
Alucius mused, his eyes taking in the rubbled base of the hillside that had
held the temple.

“Just
one?” asked Feran, his tone dry.

“What
happened to all the golds in Hyalt? No one seems to have any, and yet people
left things hurrying to leave. There were others who said they gave everything
to the prophet. But no one left Hyalt after the first weeks, and we haven’t
found any strongboxes, nothing.”

“Oh…
you think…?”