“You must know that Majer Vaclyn tried to kill both Captain Mykel and me—and that he is dead. I’ve taken over command of Third Battalion.”
“Yes, sir.” Jiosyr looked at the stone tiles of the floor.
“Why was the majer so angry at the captain?”
“Sir?”
“I heard the majer’s last words to the captain. He was angry. Why?”
Jiosyr was silent, and Dainyl contemplated using Talent to persuade him to speak. He decided to wait, his eyes on the slumped figure of the squad leader.
“He thought that the captain—Captain Mykel—was always trying to get around his orders. He said that he needed to be taught a lesson. Then… he told me we’d need to set up a court-martial, that the captain had gone too far.”
“How had the captain gone too far?”
“He didn’t say, sir. He just said that.”
“What did you say to Captain Mykel to get him to leave his quarters?”
Jiosyr turned paler than milk and swayed in the chair. “Sir?”
“You’re not going to be stupid enough to deny it, are you?”
The squad leader shuddered. “No, sir. Majer Vaclyn… he told me to tell the captain that his squad leader Alendyr had been knifed by a ranker and was in the infirmary.”
Dainyl nodded. The captain had worried more about his men than orders or himself. He’d scarcely talked to the captain, but the more he heard and saw, the more he approved of the man—and the less sense Vaclyn’s acts made. A good commander praised effective subordinates, both to their faces and in reports to superiors—then took a small share of the credit for their initiative and accomplishments. “Why did you do that?”
“The majer said he needed to get the captain to disobey orders one more time, that Captain Mykel was always so careful not to disobey when anyone was watching.”
“Did you think this was the right thing to do?”
“No, sir… but what was I to do? I only need another two years for a stipend. The majer could have dismissed me without anyone stopping him. Eighteen years… gone for nothing.”
“Your stipend was worth the lives of two men?”
Jiosyr stiffened. “Sir. I’ve killed Reillies and bandits and brigands. I did it because I was a Cadmian. I did it to protect people. There wasn’t anyone protecting me. I’d let it be known, as I could, that the majer shouldn’t be in the field. I even made copies of reports Colonel Herolt never would have seen, and I got them on the colonel’s desk. No one did anything.”
The sudden stiffening and the aura of truth were both almost overpowering, even to Dainyl.
“No one did anything,” Jiosyr repeated. “That’s the truth, sir.”
Dainyl paused. “That will be all for now, Jiosyr. I’d appreciate it if you’d remain within the compound.”
“Yes, sir.” The squad leader paused. “What will you… do with me?”
“That depends on what else I discover.”
After Jiosyr left, Dainyl considered what else was necessary. He needed to question Captain Mykel—in far greater depth—once the captain was feeling better. He still had to talk to all of the other officers. None of them would know anything about why Majer Vaclyn had acted as he had. Of that, Dainyl was most certain, but he had to go through the motions.
He stepped out of the study, looking for Herryf.
Nearly three glasses later, after Captain Rhystan of Sixteenth Company had left the study that had been Herryf’s, Dainyl knew little more than when he started—except that Majer Vaclyn had barely been marginally competent before the Third Battalion had been deployed to Dramur. Even more puzzling was that all of the battalion’s surviving captains would have done better if they had been in command.
Was the marshal out to discredit the Cadmians? Why? What purpose would that serve?
In the dimness of the study, Dainyl looked at the stone outer wall and then at the darkness beyond the single window. He still had no more answers—only more questions.
54
For Mykel, Octdi night was long—and restless. It was well past dark when the local healer finally allowed Alendyr and two troopers to escort him back to the officers’ quarters. He slept, but not for very long at a time, and pain ran down his entire arm most of the time.
When he was awake, trying to lie still so that he didn’t turn and send more jolts of pain up and down his arm and shoulder, his thoughts alternated mostly between the soarer and the alector. Majer Vaclyn’s knife had gone through Mykel’s tunic and undertunic like a hot blade through butter, yet his second knife had bounced off the Myrmidon’s tunic. After having seen that once before when the crossbow bolt had struck the alector in Faitel, Mykel shouldn’t have been surprised. In both cases, there had been a reaction—guards in Faitel, and the colonel’s light-cutting sidearm. That argued that the alectors weren’t invulnerable, but that there was something about the shimmering cloth that they all wore, an armor that didn’t look like armor.
The soarer had been different, totally unafraid of the rifle he had held, yet she had known exactly what it was. She’d also told him not to use it on the other creature, and that suggested that, while she might not be vulnerable, the creatures were. A faint smile creased his lips in the darkness of the quarters. Just how likely was it that he would ever see either again?
For a few moments, he thought about Kuertyl. Had he caused the younger captain’s death by following Vaclyn’s orders? Was there any way he could have avoided it? His lips tightened. He could have stopped it only by massacring the entire town of Jyoha-^r all the men and most of the women. Once you started killing people who weren’t troopers or didn’t think of themselves as such, where did it stop? By following the majer’s orders, he’d turned an entire town into deadly enemies—and that had led to the death of Kuertyl and half of Thirteenth Company. How could a captain deal with stupid orders without getting killed, one way or the other, either by carrying them out or through discipline for insubordination?
In time, he did drift back into sleep.
The next morning, with his arm bound, Mykel took his time pulling himself together and washing up before making his way to the officers’ mess. Minding what the healer had said, he was using the harness sling to reduce the weight on his shoulder.
Heransyr, Dohark, and Rhystan were seated around a square table in one corner of the mess. Dohark stood and waved. “Over here!”
Mykel gave an off-center smile and walked carefully toward the table.
Dohark had pulled out a chair, and Mykel took it.
“You look like shit,” said Dohark. “Bat shit.” He grinned sympathetically. “You know, Mykel, you don’t get wounded like anyone else. Shot in the ass by Reillies and knifed by your own commander.”
“The Myrmidon colonel really burned old Vaclyn to a cinder?” asked Rhystan, pushing back a lock of lank brown hair off his narrow forehead.
Mykel nodded. “Used that light-cutter thing. Blue light— majer went up in flames.”
A server looked at the latest arrival at the table.
“Ale, if you don’t have cider,” Mykel said.
“No cider, sir. Ale, water, or wine.”
“Ale… and whatever you have for breakfast.”
The server slipped away.
“Why did the colonel do that?” Heransyr frowned.
“The majer had already put one knife in me,” Mykel explained. “Then the colonel appeared and told him to stop. Majer threw the knife at him instead of me. That probably saved my neck.”
“Or your ass,” added Dohark.
Rhystan shook his head. “Stupid. Don’t attack Myrmidons. Everyone knows that.”
“He was stupid, and about more than that,” countered Dohark. “Remember when he wanted you to take a squad through that flooded field.”
Rhystan started to say something, then closed his mouth.
“He was really angry,” Mykel admitted. “He said I was to blame for Kuertyl’s death.” He took the mug of ale that the s
erver set on the table, looking at it, but not drinking.
“He was. Didn’t he order you to attack all those rebels in Jyoha?” asked Dohark.
“They were poor debtors, not rebels, and they didn’t have many weapons, but he insisted that I bring them in. They didn’t want to go to the mines.” Mykel sipped the ale, wishing it were hot cider. “We had to kill them or let a lot of troopers get killed or wounded.”
“Kuertyl’s dead?” asked Rhystan.
“Jyoha—the whole town went up in arms. They made jars of flaming oil, and dug pits in the roads,” Heransyr explained. “With poisoned stakes.”
The orderly slipped a platter in front of Mykel. Breakfast was fried fish and greasy potatoes, with stale bread. He took a mouthful and corrected himself—soggy and greasy potatoes. He broke the bread one-handed, and crumbs sprayed across the table.
Heransyr turned back to Mykel. “Why do you think everyone’s mad at us?”
Mykel took another swallow of ale before replying. “In Corus, the mainland part, most people want to do things the way the Duarches want. Here, nobody wants to do that. So there’s no one who likes why we’re here, and everyone’s against us. When we were in Jyoha, we saw the ruins of a sawmill…” He went on to explain what he had learned.
“Sawmill seems harmless enough,” said Rhystan. “Folks need planks and timbers.”
“The Duarches don’t do things without a reason,” Heran-syr said.
“Majer Vaclyn didn’t, either.” Dohark laughed, then stood. “I need to check my squad. Hope we can head back today, not that I’m all that happy looking for smugglers who won’t show up so long as we’re there.”
Within moments, Heransyr and Rhystan rose as well, leaving Mykel to finish the last of his breakfast by himself.
Later, as Mykel walked out of the mess, he wondered about what Heransyr had said. The Duarches hadn’t wanted a sawmill, and they did want the guano mine working. He’d also recalled someone talking about a swamp that had been drained. Dohark—he’d mentioned a cousin and something about the alectors not liking growing plants being cut down.
Was that why most buildings were of brick and stone? Was the guano so important that an entire battalion had been sent to Dramur—with a Myrmidon colonel to watch? But why?
“Captain Mykel! Sir?”
Mykel turned his head quickly, then tried not to wince at the jolt that went down his arm.
A Cadmian ranker was hurrying toward him. “Sir, Colonel Dainyl is looking for you.”
“Lead the way.” Mykel was not looking forward to seeing the colonel.
The duty squad leader in the foyer took a long look as Mykel and his escort passed, but said nothing.
The door to the study that had been Majer Herryf’s was open. Mykel stepped in, and the ranker closed it. Colonel Dainyl sat on the desk, his long legs almost touching the stone floor.
“Sir?”
“How is your shoulder this morning?” Dainyl’s deep voice seemed hoarse, and there was a redness around his eyes.
Mykel sensed that the alector was less than pleased to be in the study. But then, the word was that he was the acting Submarshal for all the Myrmidons, and he was now handling a position that should have been held by a much more junior officer—a Cadmian officer at that.
“It stings a bit,” Mykel replied.
“You were lucky. Please have a seat. The chairs here are somewhat too cramped for me.” Dainyl offered a grin. “From what I saw, the majer was very good with his knives.”
“Yes, sir. I was lucky you were nearby.”
“You still won’t be going anywhere for another day or so. It could be longer. I sent a messenger to your senior squad leader saying that you would be here for several days and for him to continue the patrols you had set up.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mykel should have thought of that himself. He would have, he told himself, if he’d been thinking, and that meant that he’d been hurt worse than he was admitting.
“Why was Majer Vaclyn so angry with you?”
How was he supposed to answer that? Mykel refrained from taking a deep breath or sighing. “Majer Vaclyn thought anyone who disagreed with him was his enemy, even the captains under him. Most of us preferred to find ways to get the task done without sacrificing men unnecessarily. He got upset with me when I used a flank attack against a fortified Reillie redoubt rather than a frontal charge. I suggested that it wasn’t wise to try to capture the forty fugitives in Jyoha. He sent me written orders insisting that I do so—” Mykel broke off. “I’m sorry. I told you that yesterday. He wanted us to stop the sniping at our patrols, but when we killed the snipers, he complained that we should have captured them.”
“Did you know that Fifteenth Company has been the most effective company in Third Battalion?” asked the colonel.
“We’ve killed more people,” Mykel admitted. “I’m not sure that’s always effective. The majer didn’t give me any choice. It seems to me that the more people you kill, the more there are that want to kill you. It’s different when you’re fighting other armed forces all in a body.” He gave the faintest headshake. “Don’t know why that should be, but people see it that way.”
“They do,” agreed Dainyl. “You didn’t want to bring in the woman, did you?”
“That’s not quite true,” Mykel said. “When I found the rifle in her cart, I realized that she hadn’t known it was there, but she didn’t want to let me know that. I didn’t see any point in taking her in then. That would have just alerted her father, and made everyone mad. The majer was very displeased. He told me that a Codebreaker was a Codebreaker.”
The colonel merely nodded.
What was the alector after? Mykel couldn’t tell, and that bothered him, because he usually had some idea what people wanted, whether he agreed with them or not.
“Was Majer Vaclyn always so indifferent to the opinions of his captains?”
That was another possible trap. Mykel considered the implications before answering. “He didn’t get so angry in the past campaigns if a captain found another way to get the task done. He’d tell us we were lucky that it worked out, or he wouldn’t say anything at all.”
“The majer was less flexible here in Dramur?”
‘That might be one way of putting it, sir.“
“Why was he so angry with you in particular, Captain?”
“I really don’t think he was, sir. I mean, he was angry at me, but it could have been any of the captains. Fifteenth Company just happened to be in places where things happened. If it had been Fourteenth Company, he would have been mad at Captain Dohark.”
Again, the colonel nodded. “I understand that Captain Dohark is the most senior of the captains. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Dohark, Rhystan, then Heransyr and me. Her-ansyr and I made captain at the same time. He might be senior, or I might.”
“Have you seen any officers among the rebels?”
Mykel frowned. “No, sir, not that I know. That’s the miners, the ones in gray. The rebels who were formed by the seltyr, they had squad leaders and captains.”
“You’ve captured a number of rifles. Did the ones that the escaped miners had all have numbers? Did you notice?”
“I’d have to check my reports, sir, to be certain, but I’m pretty sure that all of the rifles the miners had were numbered.”
“How many snipers were there at any one time…”
“Why have you often been the point man in chasing - down rebels…”
“Have you heard any captives talking about either the Cadmians or the Myrmidons…”
The questions went on and on.
Then, the colonel stood, towering over Mykel and the desk where he had been sitting. “Thank you, Captain. You’ve been most helpful. I think you and your squad should remain here until Londi. If your shoulder is healing well, you could return to your company.” He smiled. “You will have to let others do the scrambling through the rocks, if it proves necessary.”
> “Yes, sir.” Mykel rose, carefully. “Thank you, sir.”
As he walked back toward the barracks to convey the news to Alendyr—second squad would certainly like a few nights on decent beds and solid food—Mykel had to admit to himself that the colonel was no one’s fool. He’d as much as told Mykel that there were two different revolts going on and that the majer had changed his behavior since coming to Dramur.
Mykel should have picked those up himself, and he hadn’t.
55
Mykel slept better on Novdi night, but when the pain subsided and he inadvertently moved or tried to turn over, the resurgence of agony jolted him awake. Even though Decdi was a full end day, he woke with the sun. A cold and raw wind—chill for Dramur—seeped through windows and shutters designed for a climate that seldom saw real chill. After swinging his feet onto the cold stone floor, Mykel finally eased himself erect. He dressed and washed awkwardly, trying to avoid moving the arm below the injured shoulder.
The courtyard outside the officers’ quarters was empty, and so silent that all he heard was the low moan of the wind and the echo of his boots on the paving stones as he walked toward the officers’ mess. He hoped he wasn’t too early to get something, but he could always come back if the cooks weren’t ready.
When he walked into the mess, the only one there, besides one cook and the orderly server, was Colonel Dainyl. The Myrmidon looked to have finished the last of his breakfast.
“Good morning, Captain,” offered the alector, standing as he spoke.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Are you feeling better this morning?”
“Some,” Mykel admitted.
“You need another day of rest. See me first thing after breakfast tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a polite smile, the colonel departed.
Mykel eased into a chair at one of the tables, very gingerly.
“Is he always this early?” Mykel asked the orderly who appeared with a mug of ale.
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