Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Crack!… thwingg! A bullet ricocheted off the surface of the road, and powdered stone puffed up momentarily ten yards in front of Mykel.

  Mykel jerked his head to the left, and had his rife aimed. He didn’t see anyone, but the shot had come from the rocks above the road ahead of them and to his left. It had been aimed at Dhozynt, the lead scout.

  “Eyes open to the left!” he ordered. “Keep moving!”

  He had a feeling, just a feeling, about where the shooter had to be, and he kept the rifle ready, his eyes darting back to that spot from each other part of the rocky slope.

  He’d ridden another fifty yards when he saw a flicker.

  Crack!… crack! His two shots were measured, and he had willed each of them to strike, a habit he’d formed soon after he’d learned how to handle the Cadmian rifle. It worked, for whatever reason, because he always hit what he aimed for. Shooting was the sole Cadmian skill at which he could say that he truly excelled.

  Abruptly, a gray-clad form sprawled across a rock, fifty yards upslope, and a rifle clattered against stone as it skidded downslope.

  “You want us to get the body, sir?”

  “I think we’d better. Without evidence, Majer Vaclyn doesn’t like to believe us,” replied Mykel.- He realized that he shouldn’t have put it that way, but he was getting tired of the majer’s arrogance. “I’ll cover them.”

  “Palam, Voeret! Head up there and bring down that body. The rifle, too, and anything that he left. Captain and scouts are covering you!”

  Mykel didn’t feel as though anyone else happened to be up in the rocks, not right above them or nearby, but he wasn’t about to relax his guard, not when he was the one who’d ordered the men up after the dead rebel.

  He was not reassured when the two troopers struggled back with the body and the rifle, even when he looked down at the gaunt bearded form lying on the graystone road. The dead rebel wore a dark gray tunic and trousers that blended in with the rocks above the mine road. On his feet were heavy crude sandals, not boots, and his belt was a length of rope tied at one side.

  “The belt pouch has cartridges, sir,” offered Voeret. “Not many. The rifle is one of ours. It’s got a number, not like the ones in Enstyla.”

  “Put the body over the back of a mount. We need to sweep the road ahead.” As he reloaded, so that he would have a full magazine again, Mykel glanced back toward the prison compound. The local Cadmians were forming up the prisoners for the march up to the mineworks. The sniper had delayed the road sweep, and fifth squad needed to get moving.

  Was that the point of the sniping? To distract them?

  When everyone in fifth squad was ready once more, he nodded at Vhanyr.

  Mykel had ridden another half vingt when he began to feel someone, something in the rocks ahead. He felt foolish, but he aimed where he sensed something and loosed one round, then a second, and finally a third. There was silence on the road as the echoes of the shots died away—but only for a moment.

  A volley of shots ripped out of the hillside.

  “Take cover behind the wall!” snapped Mykel, following his own advice, if belatedly, and easing the chestnut up beside the wall. He flattened himself against his mount’s neck and studied the slope.

  “Fire at will!” he ordered, then he aimed and fired, concentrating hard on a patch of gray that was not quite right in color.

  The rebel slumped, and Mykel began to search for another target.

  For a time after the initial flurry of fire, the shots on both sides were intermittent.

  After perhaps a quarter glass, there was no more fire from the hillside, and—seemingly—no one remaining up above them.

  Mykel waited… and waited.

  In the end, they found five bodies—all with numbered and marked Cadmian rifles. All had been dressed in dark gray, with sandals, instead of real boots, and all had miners’ tattoos on their ankles.

  The local Cadmians barely looked at the bodies as they marched the prisoners up past fifth squad, stationed in two ranks of nine on each side of the gate into the mineworks.

  Mykel kept swallowing, trying to escape the smell of the guano, but he listened to the murmurs of the squad as they watched the last of the prisoners enter the mineworks.

  “What is it… about the Captain?”

  That was one of the newer Cadmians. Mykel had to concentrate to remember the man’s name—Herast.

  “… always been like this…”

  “… ever get wounded?”

  Someone laughed.

  Mykel doubted he’d ever live that down. In his first skirmish as an officer, he’d stood in the stirrups and half turned to give an order, and one of the Reillies had fired and bit him in the side of the buttocks, more like the back of his upper thigh, but the word among the rankers for more than a year was that the undercaptain finally understood being a pain in the ass.

  Finally, the heavy wooden gates closed behind the last Cadmian guard.

  “Let’s head back.” Mykel nodded at Vhanyr.

  “Double column! Forward! Look lively!”

  Mykel had been bothered by the local Cadmians’ indif-ference to the six bodies, but then, everything about Dramur was beginning to disturb him—and he still worried about what to say about what Rachyla had revealed. His fingers dropped toward the ancient’s knife, but he did not touch it.

  42

  Falyna arrived back from Elcien late in the afternoon on Octdi, bearing a series of dispatches. Only one was for Dainyl. Along with that dispatch came a sealed letter. Dainyl slipped the letter from Lystrana into his jacket, to read later.

  Falyna had begun to unsaddle the pteridon, after handing the two other dispatches to Quelyt. In turn, Quelyt set off on foot to deliver the dispatches for Majer Herryf and Majer Vaclyn to their senior squad leaders.

  “What did you hear in Elcien? asked Dainyl.

  “No one’s saying much, but there’s a mess out east in Iron Stem,” replied Falyna, undoing the girths. “Marshal Shastylt was only in Elcien for two days the whole time we were there. Zorlcyt said that he’d come back to talk to the High Alector of Justice—more like he was ordered back— and then showed up at headquarters and dashed off the dispatches and headed back to Iron Stem again.”

  “What else?”

  “They sent Yuasylt and his squad to Hyalt, something about brigands in the hills that the local Cadmian garrison couldn’t handle. Undercaptain Chelysta was complaining that the duty rosters were too thin, with two squads in Iron Stem, and one in Hyalt, and us here.”

  “They’ve been thinner than that many times.” Dainyl could recall times when he’d been an undercaptain, and his one squad had done all the dispatch flying for weeks at a stretch.

  “Not for a while, though. Folks forget.”

  That was true enough. “Anything more?”

  “Not much. One of the assistants to the High Alector of Justice was taking one of those Tables to Dereka and got caught in the middle of a wild translation. The Highest will have to find another assistant.” Falyna looked at the colonel. “If you took over as his assistant, you could stay in Elcien. I’d wager they’d consider it.”

  Dainyl suppressed a frown behind a laugh. “I’ve met the Highest on one or two occasions. He’s most formidable. I’ll stay in the Myrmidons so long as they’ll have me.”

  Falyna snickered. “Colonel, I have to admire how you can suggest that another alector would translate his own mother twice and smile.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The flier just grinned.

  “I’d better find a quiet spot and read what the marshal has in store for us,” Dainyl said.

  “I should have kept you talking longer, sir.”

  Dainyl waved Falyna off, but with a smile, and headed back to his quarters.

  Once he was alone, he settled himself on the end of the bed and looked at the envelope. It was addressed to Colonel Dainyl, with no other titles. The Talent-seal had not been tampered with, and Dainyl opened th
e envelope, extracted the sheets of the dispatch, and began to read.

  Colonel—

  Both the High Alector of Justice and I have read your single dispatch about the situation in Dramur. It would appear that the unrest there has been fueled by differing causes, and your prudence in remaining an observer is to be commended.

  The matter of the unmarked Cadmian rifles has been referred to the High Alector of Engineering in Ludar, with a request that the manufactory inventory and shipping processes be reviewed. While a few hundred rifles should not in themselves present an insurmountable problem to the Cadmians, you are requested to keep a close eye on these matters in the event that the situation should deteriorate further.

  What is most disturbing is that the local steers would even think to fire upon an alector. Your immediate action in destroying the would-be attackers is also to be commended. Such acts cannot be countenanced, particularly now…

  Particularly now? Why was now any different from the generations before? Because the time was nearing to transfer the master scepter? And because disruptions would count against Acorus in deciding which world would succeed Ifryn in power and glory?

  … You must be especially alert against anything that might lead to a full-scale insurrection. At the same time, as has been emphasized, you must not intrude unless and until it is clear that the Cadmian battalion cannot handle the situation.

  Those words were an indication that Dainyl had read the situation correctly.

  I would suggest weekly dispatches, but that must be dictated by circumstances. Both the Highest and I count upon your discretion and judgment in these matters.

  The signature was that of Marshal Shastylt.

  Dainyl read the entire dispatch, really a letter of instructions, again. He would indeed have to be most careful as events unfolded.

  Finally, he opened the letter from Lystrana. Unlike the marshal’s dispatch, the Talent-seal on hers had been tampered with, but Dainyl had expected that, since Lystrana would have had to have left the missive with the marshal. He smiled as he read the salutation.

  My dearest,

  Although the house is not large, it feels quite so, and more than a little empty without your presence. When I wake in the morning, I still look to your side of the bed, and at night, I often reach out, but find only cool covers. I also miss your warm smile and enthusiasm for the day…

  Thankfully, although I would rather have you here, as always, I have been much occupied with reconciling bursars’ and other accounts and financial details occasioned by the reductions in coal production and the ramifications for all sorts of crafting and artisan work over the next two or three quints…

  Had the disruptions at Iron Stem been that severe?

  … Fortunately, Zestafyn has provided a great deal of assistance, without which projections for the Highest would have been most difficult.

  Zestafyn? If the head of the Duarch’s intelligence operations were supplying information to Lystrana, matters were far worse than the tone of her letter suggested; but then, the reference might have been for the benefit of the marshal or whoever had tampered with the seal and read the letter.

  .. Your mother stopped by on Tridi. It was most kind of her. She was quite solicitous and hoped it would not be too long before you returned. She said that your direct and practical approach to solving difficult problems usually meant that you were never away for that long, but that meant you spent much more time afterward polishing and smoothing displaced scales, and that someday there would be scales that could not be smoothed back into shape. I said that you always had to be practical, and that you would choose the best time to act. We laughed about that, especially when I told her about the calculations over your morning carriage ride. She was also most complimentary about the improvements to the house, and quite warm and gracious in talking about you.

  I almost forgot to tell you that I have officially been named as the chief assistant to the High Alector of Finance. It doesn’t change what I’m doing, but it is recognition. I look forward to seeing you, whenever that may be.

  Above her signature, she had written, “With all my love.” Dainyl smiled at those words. Then he nodded slowly as he considered the entire letter. What Lystrana was telling him was that what he was involved in was extraordinarily delicate, so delicate that even his mother was worried, and she seldom had expressed worry. He doubted that his mother had said any such thing, or even visited the house, but it was Lystrana’s way of making a point in a letter she had known would be read.

  The two letters emphasized what he had feared all along—that far more was going on than anyone not in-volved knew or even than those involved could or would explain and that if he took his usual and more direct approach, his troubles would compound themselves. Yet Lystrana had also suggested, indirectly, that he would have to act that way… at the right time.

  He just hoped he could recognize that decision point, or points.

  43

  Duadi was a cloudy day, although the clouds were high, and a cold wind, chill for Dramur, whistled through the fields and scattered woodlands. Mykel rode beside Chyndylt, as he had for the past week, after the efforts on the mining road had quieted that area. With that success, Mykel had hoped that he would hear little from the majer. He had been mistaken.

  Majer Vaclyn had not been totally pleased. He’d sent a short dispatch that asked Mykel if it had been necessary to tie up the road for over a glass and keep the miners from working when the mine was already suffering from lowered production. He also suggested that Mykel should have recaptured at least some of the attackers.

  Mykel had sent back a polite reply, in which he noted that it was difficult to allow the prisoners to travel a road under fire from rebels hidden above the road in the rocks, but that he would attempt to do better, should the situation occur again. He’d had to stay up late in the tiny cubicle in the rundown auxiliary barracks near the mine to write up his response, as well as a more detailed account of both actions. He had also written a second copy for his own records.

  Because matters had continued to remain quiet on the mining road, Mykel had been accompanying Chyndylt and third squad on patrols of the lanes in the lower hills east of the mining camp. Chyndylt had earlier reported that the squad had been taking sporadic fire every day, but that they had never been able to get close to the snipers. Whoever had been firing always chose places where they couldn’t be seen.

  By the end of another week’s patrols, with Mykel accompanying the squad, matters had improved somewhat While two of third squad’s rankers had been wounded, enough to send them back to Dramuria, the squad had killed three snipers. Mykel had killed two, although it was only clear to third squad that he had taken out one of them, and that was fine with him. He would have been happy if he hadn’t been credited with any.

  He had sent back a brief report with the wounded troopers in which he noted that one rebel had lived for a few moments after being shot, but all that questioning could get from the dying man was that more rifles would come “from the west” to add to those stolen from the Cadmian compound. That was as much as any rank-and-file rebel would know, Mykel surmised.

  Earlier, just past midmorning, someone had fired at the squad, but from a more distant rise, without hitting anyone, and had used the lane to escape. Mykel had seen no sense in pursuing, not when it might have led into a trap. The rest of the morning had been quiet, except for an occasional jibe from holders.

  One had stood behind a tree and called, “Found any real rebels yet?”

  The murmurs from the squad as they had ridden past the holder’s cot had been worrying to Mykel.

  “… mouthy bastard…”

  “… like to shoot him…”

  “… not the one being shot at…”

  Mykel could see both sides. He didn’t see any real rebellion. The shooting at troopers hadn’t happened until after

  Third Battalion had arrived. The Cadmians hadn’t shot anyone who hadn’t shot at them fi
rst, and they were getting tired . of being targets. So was Mykel, but he wasn’t the one who could change the orders. If he protested or ignored them totally, he’d end up court-martialed and flogged, with someone else succeeding him and carrying out the same orders.

  “There’s another cot up there,” said Chyndylt. “Three men working on a trestle, looks like they’re doing something to a chimney.”

  “I don’t see anything like rifles.” Mykel continued to survey the road and the surroundings, as did the scouts, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  As the squad neared the square stone house, with faded yellow shutters, the two bearded stoneworkers turned, watching the squad. Neither said anything.

  From one of the windows came another voice. “There go the brave Cadmians. They shoot because they can’t speak. Brave, brave, Cadmians.”

  “Hush…” That was a woman’s voice.

  “I won’t. They don’t do any good, just kill good men who were sent to the mines because they were poor. Or because they angered the seltyrs. Ride on! Ride on, brave Cadmians.”

  Mykel winced. At least, the idiot had enough sense to stay out of sight.

  The unseen woman said something, and the man did not taunt the passing squad again.

  The last of third squad was a good hundred yards past the cot before Chyndylt spoke. “I’d wager he wouldn’t dare to say that face-to-face.”

  ‘That’s not a wager I’d take,“ replied Mykel.

  “Why are they so angry?”

  “They don’t want us here. They think that we’re tools of the seltyrs and the growers.”

  “But… the majer killed one of the seltyrs, and Fifteenth Company destroyed his private arms force. If the seltyrs had their way, we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Things like facts and truth don’t change people’s feelings,” replied Mykel.

  Another glass passed, and, as noon approached, ahead Mykel saw a gray-haired man carrying stones, apparently to extend a low stone wall that paralleled the lane. The man fitted each stone, then turned to a pile behind him for another. As the squad neared, the man stopped and watched.