Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  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.

  38

  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, yo
u 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 wa
s 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…”