Soarers Choice (34 page)

Then,
he was through the silvered blue of the barrier at Tempre and...

...
standing on the Table in Tempre. He stepped down onto the polished floor
stones.

A
young-looking recorder in green appeared from the hidden chamber, bowing.
“Marshal Dainyl, sir?”

“Yes?”

“We’re
honored to see you here in Tempre. How might we help you?” The recorder’s eyes
only met Dainyl’s for an instant.

The
recorder was not being evasive. Rather Dainyl could sense fear and great
apprehension. Great apprehension? Who had told the recorder about him, and what
had they said?

He
smiled. “I’m here to see Captain Lyzetta of the Myrmidons. If there is any
transportation — I’d prefer not to walk.”

“Sir,
I am most certain that the regional alector’s coach will be ready for you. He
has already arrived this morning. He left word soon after he came to Tempre
that you were to be accorded every courtesy.”

The
recorder meant what he said. That bothered Dainyl more than the alector’s fear.
“That is kind of him. I have to confess I don’t know the new RA.”

“Senior
Alector Byrnat. He was appointed two weeks ago by Duarch Samist.”

Dainyl
thought he had heard the name, and that Byrnat had been some sort of special
assistant to Samist, but he didn’t fully trust his memory. “He has served the
Duarches well.”

“Yes,
sir.”

With
a last smile at the nervous recorder, Dainyl stepped through the doorway and
into the outer corridor. He could not help but note the new oak door,
reinforced with iron, and the freshly mortared stonework that replaced what had
been destroyed in the fight over the Tempre Table weeks earlier.

The
two guards outside stiffened. “Sir.”

“Carry
on.” Dainyl made his way to the end of the corridor and up the stairs to the
main level. From the southwest corner of the building he had come to know too
well, he walked quickly along the wide west corridor toward the front and then
around to the main entry hall.

The
few individual alectors and alectresses in the corridor all nodded respectfully
— and gave him a wide berth.

“...
he the one?”

“He’s
the new marshal... you know ...”

Whatever
they “knew,” Dainyl didn’t hear, but as the recorder had said, there was a
coach waiting, and he was at the stonewalled compound — completed less than a
year earlier for the now-disbanded and disavowed Alector’s Guard — in less than
a quarter glass.

The
coach stopped outside the gates, where Dainyl stepped out. The sun was just
rising over the top of the hills, and its long orangish white rays angled
through the bare branches of the trees to the east of the compound.

“Will
you need me to wait, sir?”

“No,
thank you.”

Dainyl
walked through the open gates and into the courtyard, glancing around, and
seeing two duty pteridons at the east end.

“Marshal!”

Dainyl
turned to see Captain Lyzetta striding across the courtyard toward him. As she
neared and then halted before him, Dainyl could clearly see the resemblance to
her father. Although she did not have Khelaryt’s extreme height and breadth,
she was almost as tall as Dainyl and broad-shouldered, with the strong features
of the Duarch. Unlike her father, she moved with a fluid grace that disguised
her size, rather than a muscularity that emphasized it.

“Marshal,
sir. You’re here early, even before muster.” Her eyes dropped to the gear he
carried.

“Matters
compel it, Captain. How are you finding Tempre?”

“Now
that we’ve managed proper length beds for everyone, it’s quite comfortable. There’s
far more space than we need.”

“I’ve
spent more time with your father, recently,” Dainyl began.

“How
is he?” Lyzetta’s words were guarded.

“You
can communicate with him now.”

“Sir?”

“He’s
no longer shadowmatched.”

Lyzetta
paled. “Then it’s been decided?”

“Decided,
but not implemented. The Master Scepter will go to Efra. We don’t know when.”

“He’s
still... Duarch?”

“Khelaryt
is still far more Talented than any of the other High Alectors.”

“More
important, sir, so are you, and you stand behind him.”

The
words took Dainyl by surprise. “I do stand behind him, Captain, but you give me
far too much credit, and too much Talent.”

“I
think not, sir.”

“Be
that as it may,” Dainyl went on quickly, seeing that his protests would avail
him little in changing her mind, “we have a difficult situation. You knew about
Blackstear?”

“Only
that First Company was dispatched there, and that was why Asyrk took squads to
Elcien.”

“A
company of foot Myrmidons from Ifryn chanced the long translation. Two-thirds
of them perished, but the remainder stormed the Table in Blackstear. The
recorder killed several and escaped. We took the Table back. While we were
doing that, another company took Soupat.” Dainyl paused and studied Lyzetta.
While she seemed concerned, she was not shocked. “You anticipated this?”

“Not
exactly, sir. I did question the
i.e.
that Ifryn
would die quietly, and that there would be an orderly series of translations to
Efra and Acorus. Given the nature of alectors, even of steers, that seemed
unlikely.” She shrugged. “What puzzled me was why so many waited so long. It
seemed obvious that attempting the long translation before anyone truly worried
about excess lifeforce use on Efra or Acorus would offer a better chance of
survival.”

Dainyl
laughed, sharply and harshly. “The majority of people, especially those who are
privileged, even in minor aspects of their lives, do not believe that the worst
will befall them. When they learn that the most successful possibility is
perhaps one chance in two of surviving the long translation, they have a
tendency to wait until it is clear that they have no other choices. Then ...
they have almost no chance unless they are among the chosen few.”

“My
father made that choice early. I think you would have, sir.”

“I
have not been faced with such a choice, and until one is, it’s difficult to
judge how I or anyone might react. Remember, too, that such choices affect all
the ones you love. Will your husband or wife survive? Will the children? How
will you react if told that one of you will die immediately on a long
translation?”

“You’ve
thought much about this.”

Not
so much as I should have. “Enough to know that it’s not simple.” He cleared his
throat. “About the mission ... so long as these insurgents hold the Table, they
will accept unlimited numbers of refugees, too many, even within weeks. We
cannot shut down the Table without taking the Table building. With the numbers
they already have, we could suffer prohibitively high casualties attempting to
storm the structure. Oh ... there’s also a Cadmian battalion there, and I don’t
want them close to what’s happening.”

“I
can see that, sir.”

Many
Myrmidons wouldn’t have, Dainyl knew. “Our strategy is simple enough. It has
two facets. First, use enough blasting powder and heavy boulders to bring the
Table building down on the Soupat Table. Second, destroy any rebel or refugee
alectors we find.”

“Sir?
Our strategy?”

“I’m
coming with you. Submarshal Alcyna will be bringing three squads from First
Company and will join us within a day or so, but they’re still in Blackstear.
I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

“Won’t
we destroy the Table as well?”

“According
to the recorders, there’s a good chance we won’t, but if we do, we do. We’ll
need the Myrmidons more and more in the weeks ahead. How soon will you be
ready?”

“We
should be able to manage in a glass, sir. Do you want the duty dispatch flier
to fly with us or do the run to Salcer, Ludar, and then to Elcien?”

“This
takes precedence over routine dispatches.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“The
other aspect of this mission is that no one else besides yourself in Seventh
Company should learn that the invaders are Ifryn Myrmidons. Only tell them that
they are invaders from Ifryn who will threaten the very existence of Acorus if
they are not stopped. Should anything occur to me, you are not to discuss it
with anyone else except Submarshal Alcyna, the High Alector of Justice, or the
Duarch of Elcien.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Dainyl
forced a smile. “I will need to fly with someone.”

“We
can manage that, sir.”

Dainyl
had no doubts that Lyzetta could manage a great deal more — and that she would
have to in the days ahead.

Mykel
could hear the faint squeaking of the wagon wheels. The noise was almost
welcome as a distraction from the burning in his shoulder. His eyes did not
seem to want to open, but he persisted in trying until he could see — hazily —
that he was lying on a pallet looking up at the canvas of one of the supply
wagons. As smooth as the high road was, the slightest of jolts sent waves of
agony through him.

As
he dropped into darkness again, his eyes closing against his will, his fading
thought was that even a crossbow bolt shouldn’t have been that bad.

The
heat and agony came and went. At times, he dropped into darkness where he felt
nothing, only to find himself back in fire and pain.

Finally,
he managed to succeed in opening his eyes once more. From what he saw — the
grayish walls, and the narrow window — Mykel thought he was on the bed in the
senior officers’ quarters in Iron Stem. “What day ... ?”

“He’s
awake ... Get the captain ...”

Mykel
closed his eyes for a moment. At least, he thought it was a moment before he
opened them.

Rhystan
was sitting on a stool beside him. “Majer ...”

“I
know,” Mykel replied, aware of the raspiness in his voice. “I... shouldn’t have
been leading from the front. I shouldn’t be doing scouting ...”

“No
... you shouldn’t, and you won’t be for a while. You shouldn’t even be alive,
let alone talking. The healer had to cut the frigging quarrel out of you.”

“That’s
why it hurts ...”

“She
said she tried not to cut too much muscle, but it’s going to be a long time
before you use a sabre. There was also something on the bolt.”

With
all the fever and pain he’d felt, Mykel didn’t need to hear more about that.
“The Reillies?”

“They
took off, didn’t even look back.”

“Good.
You must have handled ... the battalion well...”

Rhystan
snorted. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. When you rode out of the trees
with that thing sticking out of you ... someone yelled, and they hightailed it
off.”

“Where
are they?”

“They
headed west. They’re camped ten vingts beyond Wesrigg.”

“...
doesn’t make sense ...”

“It
didn’t seem to. Not until I sent out some of the scouts to talk to people — and
I had one take the golds to that innkeeper. I thought he might say something.”

“Did
he?”

“Not
much.” Rhystan grinned. “He asked if you were still alive. When Meurgelt said that
you were, and that you would recover, he got real quiet.”

“I’m
glad you’re ... confident.”

“Someone
has to be.” Rhystan’s smile dropped away. “It seems that you killed the Reillie
who shot you, and that he was the local commander or battleleader or whatever,
and now they have to go through some sort of ritual to select another. It’s
likely to take a few weeks. That’s the good news.”

“And?”
Mykel was still feeling lightheaded, but he knew Rhystan well enough to know
that there was more.

“The
first duty of the new leader is to avenge the death of the old one.”

“That’s
not so bad,” suggested Mykel. “We won’t have to chase them.”

“You
haven’t heard it all, Majer. The man you killed was a Reillie. The Squawts and
Reillies may sometimes fight among themselves, but they like outsiders less,
and there’s a good chance all the Squawts will join the Reillies in attacking
us. So far, only a handful have been with the Reillies.”

“...
have to take more time,” murmured Mykel.

“Another
few weeks, at most, enough to gather another thousand men, women, and youths.”

Mykel
had to wonder why, but he didn’t feel like asking.

Rhystan
went on inexorably. “It seems that by attacking their battleleader, man-to-man,
you threatened something. No one wants to say what it might be, and maybe they
don’t know, but you’ve apparently gotten them to agree on something for the
first time in centuries.”

“...
problem is,” said Mykel, forcing himself to articulate as clearly as he could,
“what they’re agreeing on is getting rid of the Cadmians.”

“And
you, Majer.”

“I’d
better heal quickly, then,” Mykel said with a cheerfulness he scarcely felt.

Less
than ten vingts north of Soupat, the air a thousand yards above the rolling
desert hills was warm, verging on hot and uncomfortable — even in early winter.
From the second harness behind Alynt, one of the younger rankers in Seventh
Company, Dainyl studied the valley ahead.

The
eternastone of the high road glistened like silvered water in the late
afternoon sunlight, a shimmering markerstick running due south toward an
irregular oval of green — the oasis that sustained Soupat and made possible the
tin and copper mines, as well as the goldenstone quarries. In addition, Soupat
provided a central gathering and distribution point for the desert nuts, so
highly valued by the landers and indigens. Dainyl found the nuts filling, but
not that delectable, but if landers wanted to pay exorbitant amounts for them,
that was their business.

As
the two squads of Seventh Company flew closer to Soupat, he saw that the solid
green he’d seen earlier was but an illusion created by the spreading foliage of
the iliaki trees that lined every street and lane clustered around the central
spring, now walled and contained in goldenstone marble. Despite their lush
appearance from the air, Dainyl could remember the one time he had touched one
of the triangular leaves and come away with a slash across his fingers. The
leaves were more like razor-edged flexible glass than the leaves of trees like
oaks or apricots — or even the dried needles of pines or firs. Tough as the
trees were, they still required some minimal water, and there was not even that
more than a vingt away from the natural springs in the center of the oasis.
Grass was sparse, tan most of the year, and tough.