“Colonel, you might recall that the Third Battalion has been patrolling the roads north of where the smugglers were detected. On Sexdi, the captain of Fifteenth Company discovered a single rifle in the horse cart of the daughter of a local seltyr. The rifle was Cadmian-issue, but without the usual maker’s stamped numbers. Because the woman seemed unaware of the rifle, and because the captain decided to proceed cautiously, despite the requirements of the Code, of which he has since been made well aware, I took command of Fifteenth Company yesterday morning, and we proceeded to Stylan Estate, the dwelling of the woman, who turned out to be the daughter of Seltyr Ubarjyr…”
At the seltyr’s name, Dainyl noted a certain uneasiness in Majer Herryf, but he merely nodded for the long-winded Vaclyn to continue.
“Fifteenth Company found a closed and locked outer gate, and when we reached the seltyr’s villa, we were attacked by more than fivescore uniformed retainers using rifles. The rifles turned out to be Cadmian weapons. Fifteenth
Company subdued the insurgents with minimal casualties. There were over fourscore of them killed, including the sel-tyr, and fifteen captured, while Fifteenth Company, under my direction, lost but four rankers and had five wounded. After the skirmish, we inspected the villa and found another five cases of rifles, more than forty cases of ammunition, as well as uniforms and cartridge belts.“
“You say that the seltyr was behind this?” asked Dainyl.
“Yes, sir,” replied Vaclyn. “The last cases of rifles and ammunition were discovered in a hidden room that opened only into his private study.”
“You seem to have been most effective, Majer. You may recall that I am here only as an observer, however.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Herryf smoothly, “but as an observer, we thought you should be the first to know about this. If you wish, and, of course, only if you wish, you could interrogate the captives. One of them is the seltyr’s daughter.”
“You brought her here?”
“How could we not, Colonel?” Vaclyn seemed to expand with indignation. “She was the one who had the first contraband rifle, and the one who was trying to delay us while the insurgents tried to get into position to attack.”
“Under those circumstances, I imagine you could see no other alternative.” Dainyl paused. “I suppose it could not hurt to talk to some of them.” He didn’t like the idea, but if there was information that had not been uncovered, and the marshal found out later… that would not be at all in Dainyl’s favor. He smiled at Herryf. “Is there anything else?”
“Ah… no, sir.”
“Then, if you would have someone escort me to the captives.” He looked to Vaclyn. “My congratulations, Majer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Herryf followed Dainyl out of the study, and beckoned to Captain Meryst. “Please take the colonel to the captives.”
Meryst half bowed, then turned to Dainyl. “The woman is in a room set aside for officers. It is in a separate building. Would you prefer to see her first or after the others?”
“First, I would think.”
Meryst led the way to a building in the middle of those set close to the compound’s south wall. The ground-level door at the east end was guarded by a pair of Cadmian rankers.
“Her name is Rachyla. She is the eldest daughter of Sel-tyr Ubarjyr.” Meryst stopped before the pair of guards outside the door. “The colonel will be interrogating the prisoner.”
One of the guards took out a large, tarnished, brass key and inserted it into a lock. With a heavy click, the lock opened. Then he retracted both iron bolts. Dainyl had to lower his head to enter the room, and once inside, the top of his head almost touched the low ceiling. The door closed behind him, although he did not hear the click of a lock again.
The woman, her hair as dark and shimmering as that of an alector, was seated on a tall stool at a small desk, writing. She turned to the door as he entered. Her face froze, and she turned away.
“Your name is Rachyla. How did you end up here?”
The woman did not look at Dainyl, but he could sense anger. Not fear, but anger.
“You’re fortunate that you’re a woman,” he said mildly.
Rachyla did not answer.
“You were involved in a revolt,” said Dainyl quietly. “That was not exactly wise.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“You are angry. Yet we have never met.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Behind the anger was also a sense of dread and despair, a strange combination.
Although he tried a number of questions and approaches, even with a hint of Talent-projection and -persuasion, she said nothing more. While she did not seem to be Talented, she was resistant to mild Talent-persuasion, and Dainyl decided against using greater Talent, since there was no certainty that it would work and the effects could be detected by a Talented alector, such as the marshal or the Highest. After close to half a glass, he left.
From there, Meryst escorted him to the holding cells in a squat and square building set against the southeast corner of the compound.
The guards brought the first prisoner to the interrogation room, where Dainyl sat in a too-small chair. The man was young. His left arm was bandaged heavily, and he slumped onto the stool. His eyes avoided Dainyl.
“Why did you fire on the Cadmians?”
The rebel did not answer.
Dainyl tried to Talent-project compulsion on the slightest level. After a moment, he asked again, “Why did you fire?”
The young man shivered, then replied, “Squad leader said to fire on them, sir.”
“Did you hit any of them?”
“I don’t know. They shot back so quickly. They killed so many of us. So quickly. Their captain, he shot three or four himself.”
“Who commanded you?”
The rebel looked at the colonel blankly.
“Who was in charge of the squad leaders, and who was in charge of that person?”
“Oh, Nurqueyt, he was the captain. His orders came from Seltyr Ubarjyr.”
“Who gave orders to the seltyr?”
“No one, sir. No one gives orders to a seltyr.” The young man looked appalled, then added quickly, “Except an alector, sir.”
“How long had you been training?”
“A season or so, sir. But we only got the rifles three weeks ago, maybe four… it was after Pabolar’s birthday.”
“Are there other companies training?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What do you think?”
“There might be a few others, but there aren’t many. Captain Nurqueyt said that we were fortunate. The rifles were hard to come by…”
Dainyl talked to the young man for another quarter glass. After that, he talked to all the others, and it was well into the afternoon before he returned to his quarters. All of the captives had said variations of the same things.
Two things had stood out. The first was the anger of the lander woman. She had not only immediately recognized Dainyl as an alector, but his presence had angered her—not frightened her. That alone suggested that she had seen alec-tors or known of their actions. Then there were the rifles— and the timing of their arrival in Dramur. The High Alector of Justice—or Marshal Shastylt—had to have learned about the incipient rebellion early, perhaps even while the rifles were on their way to Dramur. That was likely to be the explanation he received—if he could find a way to ask that question in a fashion that didn’t threaten his own future. If he even bothered with the question… because it seemed clear enough to him that somehow the marshal and the Highest had arranged for the rifles to be shipped to the sel-tyr. Why was another question, and one he needed to be more careful in investigating, far more careful, he suspected, than had been Submarshal Tyanylt.
30
Mykel and Fifteenth Company rode northwest over yet another narrow road, toward the town of Jy-oha. Both sides of the road were without shoulders and bordered by brush ol
ives and other growth, but all of it was just high enough and thick enough so that seeing more than a few yards into the growth was difficult. At the same time, he was following a map about which he had more than a few doubts with orders that he trusted even less. How exactly was he supposed to “capture and subdue rebel forces opposed to the Code of the Duarches” with almost no information on how large such forces might be or where they were.
As he rode and studied the road, rising slowly before him to cross between two low hills more than a vingt ahead, Mykel tried to figure out where he had erred in the mess at Stylan Estate. Should he just have followed the Code blindly, as the majer had demanded? Mykel still thought that his instincts had been right. If he taken Rachyla into custody immediately, Seltyr Ubarjyr would have protested. His daughter would have been returned, either flogged or merely admonished, and at some time in the future, armed attacks would have occurred, either against one of the battalion’s companies or against other growers. Certainly, the seltyr had to have been making plans to arm his forces for some time. But why? And for what purpose?
Why had Majer Vaclyn gone out of his way, even put himself in danger, to make certain that the seltyr was dead? Was that because he feared that the seltyr’s capture would create a rallying point? If matters were so desperate, why hadn’t a ajpipany of Myrmidons been sent in? Or was Vaclyn covering up something?
Who in the Duarchy had betrayed the seltyr? It had to be someone high enough—a regional bursar? Someone even higher? But why would anyone higher, an alector, even bother with a local grower? Why would anyone want to arm locals, when the alectors went out of their way to keep rifles out of the hands of landers and indigens? Mykel took a deep breath. For all his questions, he neither had answers nor any way to find them, and worrying over them would just distract him from the tasks at hand.
He looked at the rise in the road ahead, where it passed between the low hills. Although he couldn’t say why, something bothered him. That was another problem. His feelings were often right, but he’d been raised as a city boy, and he couldn’t always explain—either to squad leaders or to his superiors—why he had done something or not done it.
One of the scouts reined up short, more than a half vingt ahead of the vanguard. Mykel watched as the trooper pulled out his rifle and fired at the ground in front of him. A plume of dust rose, more than should have. The trooper nodded and started to turn his mount.
Crack! At the sound of the rifle, both scouts completed the turn and spurred their mounts back toward the van of Fifteenth Company.
“Company halt! Rifles ready!” snapped Mykel. “Road oblique! Both sides!”
First squad swung out to the left, and second to the right, as much as they could, in a staggered formation that allowed more rifles to be aimed at an enemy ahead.
Another short volley of shots chased the returning scouts, all coming from the brush-covered hillside to the right of the road. None appeared to strike the two Cadmians.
“Take cover on the right!” Mykel ordered.
As the scouts neared, Mykel gestured them to him. “What did you find?”
“Pits… holes in the road,” explained Gerant^reining up and bringing his mount as close to the brush olive as he could. “Looked like sharpened stakes in them. Not all that deep, maybe a third to a half yard, but deep enough to mess up a mount. If you were riding hard…”
Mykel understood—a broken leg or worse for the mount and a broken neck for the rider.
Over the next quarter glass, there where were no more shots, and no sounds from ahead. In the end, Mykel chose slowness and cover, using the first two squads to advance on foot, using poles to probe any suspicious ground and keep-ing close to the brush olives. Fifteenth Company took no other shots, but more than two glasses passed before the company held the rise. They also discovered more than a score of pits, most a yard wide and a third of a yard deep. A darkish substance had been smeared on the stakes. Pickets had been posted in all directions, but Mykel doubted they would see or hear anyone.
“Have them use something to break them and fill the holes,” Mykel told Bhoral. “If we leave those… how many riders will get hurt, including some of our own dispatch riders? Can you imagine what the majer will have to say, especially after the mess in Enstyla?”
Bhoral nodded slowly. “Sorry time when mounted rifles have to fill holes in a road.”
“There’s no help for it.”
Mykel looked at the descending road that was barely more than a lane. It circled around the base of the western hill until it headed almost due west, but only for another vingt. Then it turned back north and climbed between two more hills.
He had to wonder how many more traps and ambushes lay ahead before they reached Jyoha—where they were supposed to establish a base from which to attack the escaped prisoners who were part of the rebel forces. According to the map, Jyoha lay less than ten vingts away.
Ten long vingts.
31
By Londi morning, the more Dainyl considered the implications of what he had observed, the less comfortable he felt, especially as a mere observer in Dra-mur. Yet he had very little proof that he could bring to the
High Alector of Justice, or for that matter, even indirectly through Lystrana to the Duarch of Elcien himself. Not only that, but bringing forward his suspicions looked to be most unwise. The only hard evidence was something like a hundred and fifty Cadmian rifles without maker’s marks or stamps to indicate whether they had been made in Faitel or in Alustre. While some landers might have been able to manufacture their own weapons, crafting on the captured rifles was both high and standardized—and any facility that could provide that would be hard-pressed to remain concealed. More important, the rifles looked and felt as though they had come from an artisan facility.
There had been a skirmish at Stylan Estate, where the contraband had been found, but nothing to indicate what had prompted the revolt, or the breaking of the Code on the use of Cadmian weapons—and none of those who survived could explain why any of it had occurred. Dainyl had no doubt that it all involved some objective of the Highest and the marshal, but he had no idea whether that purpose advanced the goals of the Duarchy or was a plot against the Duarches—or against other high alectors.
All the other events were not matters that he could safely report, not in full, or events without enough behind them for any meaningful conclusions to be drawn. He could report the attack on himself, but not what the attacker had said. He could report that the lander woman would not talk to him, but he could not point out that she was resistant to the use of Talent. He could point out that someone was smuggling the rifles into Dramur, but not who or why. He could report the ancient tunnel, although he wanted to wait on doing that.
And behind all that was one other constraint, one that faced all Myrmidons, indeed, all alectors. Compared to the total lander and indigen population of Acorus, the Myrmidons were few. Even the total number of Cadmians was small, particularly the battalions from Elcien and Alustre or
Dereka, rather than locally recruited and trained Cadmians, such as those under Majer Herryf.
For all that, he needed to do something. At the very least, he needed to find out what Herryf was doing and saying, and to do so, he needed to risk revealing what he had kept hidden for years, but then, he and Lystrana had kept those abilities hidden just for a situation such as he now faced.
With a wry smile, he left his quarters and made his way down to the courtyard and toward the headquarters building. He walked toward the north side of the structure and into the deep early-morning shadows. There he paused, until he was certain no one was looking in his direction before he raised a full Talent-shield. With the shield in place, he planned to take advantage of common misperceptions.
Because alectors were so much bigger than landers, most landers and indigens had no idea how quietly an alector could move—or that an alector’s Talent could provide a concealment from the eyes of all without Talent, and that was from all in
digens and almost all landers.
He moved silently through the shadows until he reached the main entrance, where he slipped past the duty desk and the unseeing squad leader who sat there. Concealed by Talent or not, Dainyl kept to the side of the corridor. Talent-hiding wouldn’t keep someone from walking into him.
Captain Benjyr and Majer Herryf were alone in the ma-jer’s study.
Dainyl used his Talent, hoping that the illusion would hold, to project an image of a closed door, while he opened the door and eased into the study. He made his way to the corner out of the direct sunlight coming through the window.
Neither man looked up.
“… have (hey done?” asked Herryf. “Besides kill one of the most respected seltyrs in Dramur, imprison his daughter, and slaughter a hundred of his retainers? They hold the roads. They ride through the plantations and upset the remaining growers. They search wagons looking for rifles that aren’t there. Miners are still escaping, or disappearing, which is worse, and the guano output continues to drop. The council, the factors, and the growers have fewer and fewer golds, and prices for food are rising rapidly. All this, and I have heard nothing from these outland Cadmians. I have heard nothing from the Myrmidon colonel. He just watches as Dramur is unraveling.”
“I had thought Majer Vaclyn might have kept you informed, sir. He and his captains haven’t said much at all, except for Captain Kuertyl. He is the kind who trades information the way the factors trade goods.”
“What has he said?”
“The officers and rankers are less than pleased with you. They feel that you should have handled the problems with the miners with our forces.”
“How? We’ve been trying for over a year. I was forbidden to create another company. I was told I could not work with the council to create a local militia. What choices did I have?”
Dainyl had not been aware of what Herryf had suggested, but he wasn’t surprised that the marshal would have limited the forces under the majer’s direct or indirect control.
“Sir?” ventured Benjyr. “I was asked to tell you something.”
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