Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “It’s not that hard. They make it seem—” Lystrana stopped. “I shouldn’t say that. If you can concentrate on the location vectors, it’s very easy. If you can’t, you’ll die in the translation tubes or turn into a wild translation—and die very quickly thereafter.”

  “What are location vectors?”

  “When you step onto a Table, you drop into darkness, and you see with Talent, not with your eyes. Your mind and Talent are what guide you; but wherever there’s a Table, there’s a location vector. To me, they look like long triangles, arrowheads. The one for Tempre is blue. The one for Elcien is white, edged with purple. Dereka is golden red.”

  “Is there any reason for the colors?”

  “If there is, I don’t know what it is,” replied Lystrana. “Beyond identifying the location of the Table, that is.”

  “How do you use your mind and Talent?”

  “It’s something that you have to feel. I don’t think you’ll have to worry.”

  Dainyl could tell she was concerned. “Then why are you worried?”

  “You’ve learned too much. You couldn’t have Talent-read that when we were married.”

  “Why are you worried?” Dainyl asked again.

  “Because… because you should do well with the Tables… but you never know. When I first tried it, I almost froze in the blackness. It was days before I felt warm. Clanysta was far more Talented than I was, but she stepped into a Table and never reappeared.”

  “Why do I have to learn in Lyterna?”

  “You could learn anywhere there’s a Table. I’d wager your Highest has several reasons.” She took another sip of brandy and shifted in the chair so that she was facing Dainyl directly.

  “He wants me out of the way. It gives him a way to keep me there longer. Someone else can teach me, and if I fail, it’s not on his head.”

  “That covers it, I’d say.”

  “A revolt in Dramur…” mused Dainyl once more. “But why?”

  “We won’t solve that mystery tonight, dearest.” Lystrana set down the goblet and rose, stretching sensually. “It’s not too late, and you are leaving tomorrow.”

  Dainyl left his goblet on the table and stood, taking her outstretched hand.

  68

  Octdi morning dawned cloudy, with a cold drizzle sifting out of low-lying clouds, a day more reminiscent of midwinter than of the spring beginning on the coming Londi. The night before had been long. Mykel had fretted about Fifteenth Company’s other squads, but all returned safely, and none but third squad had taken fire. The raiders had killed four troopers from third squad and wounded two others. Both of the wounded men looked to recover, for which Mykel was thankful.

  According to Meryst, there had been thirty-three dead rebel troopers on the road, which was amazing given that the deaths had been caused by one squad and the Cadmian tower guards. Still, counting the dead and wounded, Fifteenth Company was less than four-fifths of authorized strength. It had been whittled away, man by man.

  After the quick and fierce battle the night before, the night had been quiet, but Mykel still had a slight headache when he woke. Even before he had eaten, he’d sent out scouts. Then he went to the mess shack. The fried bananas and salted fried fish presented for breakfast didn’t help either the headache or his mood. As he sat at the plank table in the mess shed, he forced himself to eat. Just as Mykel was finishing the final chunk of banana—he wanted the last taste to be other than fish, Meryst slipped onto the bench opposite him.

  “What do you plan, Captain?”

  “We’ll be scouting and protecting the approaches to the camp. Fifteenth Company will not be doing any more patrols on the road to the mine. Have you seen riders in that blue before?”

  “Not riders, but the blue is the color of the west.”

  Rachyla had been right, Mykel reflected, hoping she was still safe and healthy. He forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “That means there will be more attacks and troopers.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You didn’t tell me that it was the color of a particular seltyr or house or grower, but of the west. I’d wager that all the western seltyrs have adopted the blue. Probably all the ones in the east have their men in the green.”

  “That is the eastern color,” Meryst admitted.

  “That’s all we need, a war between the east and the west, with Myrmidons flying everywhere.”

  “You had not heard? The Myrmidon colonel and his fliers left almost a week ago. They have not returned.”

  “That’s even worse.” Mykel could imagine the seltyrs deciding to attack the Cadmians—and each other—in the absence of the Myrmidons’ flame lances. “Why would he leave now?”

  “He did not look happy, I understand. He had received a dispatch from one of his fliers, and he left the next morning.”

  “That sounds like trouble somewhere else. Worse trouble.” Mykel eased his way off the bench. “I need to see what my scouts have found out. I’d rather not be caught by surprise.”

  “You think they will attack here again?”

  Mykel suspected that the attack had been to keep Fifteenth Company pinned down so that the attackers could move more freely. “I don’t know. That’s why I sent out scouts.”

  “You think they will stay that close?” Meryst’s tone conveyed disbelief.

  “We’ll have to see.” Mykel offered a smile before heading for the stable sheds.

  Bhoral was waiting, lines of worry creasing his forehead. “No one’s back yet, sir.”

  “I didn’t think they’d be. We need to go over some maps.”

  “You have something in mind, sir?”

  “I do, but I want to see what the scouts find out” Mykel lifted his hand to push back too-long hair from his forehead, and thought the better of it as his shoulder began to twinge. Using his rifle the day before hadn’t helped with the healing. He unrolled the crude map and pointed. “Here we are, and here’s the road from the west. It’s a good five vingts toward Dramuria from here. That’s the only quick way that they can bring horse troopers in—or out. The road south from here is open for about half a vingt, to where the lanes split off…”

  Bhoral listened as Mykel explained.

  Then they waited another glass before the first scouts returned. Mykel had Bhoral gather the squad leaders in the stable shed—the only real space away from the Cadmian rankers.

  Once scouts and squad leaders were assembled, Mykel turned to Sendyl, the first squad scout. “What did you find?”

  “There’s a squad, and they’re about a vingt and a half toward Dramuria, almost a vingt past the crossroads on the east side of the road,” reported Sendyl. “Small hill there, and they were hiding in a woodlot.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “Afraid they did, sir. Took a couple of shots afore I got under the trees where they couldn’t see me. That’s when I sneaked through one of those nut plantations. I got close enough to get a better look. They were mostly just back of the first lines of trees. I circled to the south side of the hill. No one over there, and the ground’s real open there, just poor grazing land. I had to come back the way I came so as they wouldn’t see me leaving.”

  Mykel nodded, then looked to the second squad scout. “Gerant?”

  “Went back over the side roads where the smaller growers are, along where Polynt… you know, sir. Anyway, there was a little rain there last night. Not a sign of riders, or even carts.”

  “Dhozynt?”

  “Nothing to the north of the mine, sir.”

  Neither of the other two scouts had seen any other signs of large bodies of riders.

  Mykel cleared his throat. “That squad to the south seems to be the only one nearby. They’re there to keep us here and to report if we move.” Mykel smiled. “We don’t want them letting anyone know, now, do we?”

  Several of the scouts grinned back at the captain.

  Mykel looked to the five squad leaders. “I’ve got some maps here,
and we need to be going over what we’ll be doing this afternoon.” He spread the map on an old plank wedged into a space between two wall boards, scarcely the best of map tables, but it would do to outline what he had in mind. The first step would be easy. After that, it got harder… much harder.

  A glass past midmorning, Fifteenth Company formed up just inside the outer walls of the mining camp. Mykel rode back along the column to fifth squad, reining up opposite Vhanyr.

  “Sir?” asked the fifth squad leader.

  “Any last questions?”

  “No, sir. Once we split at the crossroads, we’re to start inspecting each side of the road, as if we’re searching for something. We’re to stay out of range until we hear you attack. Then we’re to move up and keep any of the rebels from escaping.”

  “Good. I meant it about staying out of rifle range.” Mykel didn’t need to lose any more men when he didn’t have to.

  “Yes, sir.” Vhanyr couldn’t quite keep the trace of a smile from the corners of his mouth.

  As he rode back to the front of the company, Mykel almost laughed. He still occasionally made statements that were overobvious. Any good squad leader—and Vhanyr was good—wasn’t about to disobey orders to stay away from sniper fire.

  “Company’s ready, sir!” announced Bhoral.

  Mykel nodded. “Let’s go.”

  “Fifteenth Company! Forward!”

  Mykel rode alongside Gendsyr at the head of Fifteenth Company. Bhoral dropped back to ride with third squad. Not for the first time, Mykel just hoped that he’d judged what lay before them correctly. Almost absently, the fingers of his free hand dropped to his belt and the slot that held the soarers’ dagger. Matters had indeed gotten steadily worse since he’d been given the ancient weapon.

  Should he discard it? A tight smile crossed his lips. Somehow, that would be worse. Either the weapon meant nothing, in which case it was stupid to get rid of it, or what the chandler had said was right. In the second instance, it was likely that discarding the weapon would cause him even worse problems.

  Then… he could just be justifying keeping it. He shook his head. Arguing with himself over something like that was courting madness. He put the miniature dagger out of this mind and looked down the stone-paved road, clear of any riders or wagons.

  By the time the two scouts reached the crossroads, where lanes led off to both the east and west, Mykel could sense eyes on the company. He forced himself not to look in the direction of the hill. Not too often, anyway.

  “Fifteenth Company! Left turn! At the crossroads!” he called out just before he and Gendsyr neared the two clay lanes.

  The lane to the west almost immediately turned southwest and followed a dry streambed. The one to the east ran straight for several hundred yards between a field of sun-beans on the left and an overgrown area on the south side, which might once have been a field but now sported scattered bushes and occasional trees, none higher than a horse’s ears. After about a quarter vingt, the lane turned back to the northeast, slowly descending through various scattered holdings, with which Mykel and Fifteenth Company had become all too familiar.

  They weren’t going to follow the lane that far, but ride back south, and circle through a woodlot back toward the hill on which the seltyr’s squad had been posted. The trees would keep them from sight until they were almost at the base of the hill.

  Once he reached the woodlot, Mykel eased his mount to the side of the lane and looked back over his shoulder. Vhanyr and fifth squad had reined up and were beginning to study the shoulders of the main road, as well as the first ten yards of the west lane.

  Mykel urged the chestnut forward until he was riding with the scouts. After another three hundred yards or so, he turned his mount onto a rutted track to the right side of the road, just between a tumbledown stone wall and the woodlot. On the east side was an orchard of casurans, perhaps the sorriest-looking nut trees Mykel had seen. Brown-splotched yellowing leaves drooped from sagging branches, and a bitter odor seeped from the neglected orchard.

  “… smells like shit…”

  “… worse…”

  “Quiet riding,” hissed Gendsyr.

  Almost a quarter glass passed before the track petered out into a grassy oval perhaps two hundred yards by a hundred and fifty. Mykel looked to the southwest, where a wooded hill offered a gentle rise, with little undergrowth. From what the scouts had observed, anyone stationed on the northwest side of the hill in a position to observe the road would have trouble seeing the eastern and southeastern sides of the hill. A squad couldn’t afford to post too many sentries in the rear, and one or two couldn’t stop an attack.

  “First squad, on me,” he ordered in a low voice.

  First squad was to ride up the northeast side of the slope, as quietly as possible until the blue troopers reacted. Second squad was to take the clearer southeast side, and third squad was to take the southwest side, holding back halfway up the slope. Bhoral and fourth squad were to hang back at the base of the slope, somewhere on the south side, to plug any gaps or reinforce as necessary. The plan of attack was simple.

  Mykel recalled all too vividly a statement his father had made. Olent had finally finished the last stones of a mosaic in the entry foyer of the family dwelling. Mykel had only been twelve, and he’d suggested that the design was nice, but simple.

  “Simple doesn’t mean easy,” Olent had said quietly.

  The words had stayed with Mykel. This time, he just hoped that his simple plan wasn’t too difficult to carry out.

  The woodlot trees were mostly older short-needled pines, and the branches didn’t really begin until they were head high. The trees were thick enough that it was hard to see more than ten yards ahead. That worked for and against Fifteenth Company.

  Halfway up, he turned in the saddle. “Rifles ready. Pass it back! Spread to the left!”

  The trailing troopers swung to the left, moving more quickly, while Mykel slowed, until he had a line abreast moving through the trees. He judged that they were less than a hundred yards from the top of the rise when he heard the first shout.

  “Riders! Coming up the back of the hill! Riders!”

  Mykel would have liked to move more quickly, but the trees were close enough together that the best he could do was a fast walk. Even so, he had ridden at least another fifty yards before he heard the first shot from the west. He kept riding, his rifle out.

  Ahead, Mykel saw a blue uniform and fired, trying to will the bullet to its target. Then, to his right, he glimpsed another rebel—on foot. He immediately fired two shots, concentrating on the second one. He thought the man went down. Several bullets flew through die branches above his head, and short gray-green needles fell around him. He rode around a fallen pine, one that someone had started to trim, and caught sight of another rebel rider a good twenty yards ahead. He fired, and the man slumped. Mykel had die feeling that someone else had shot him.

  From that moment, Mykel lost track. The only thing keeping the attack from turning into a melee where Cadmi-ans accidentally shot Cadmians was the bright blue tunics of the rebels.

  Mykel finally reined up in a small clearing where the rebels had apparently been waiting. There were still two mounts tied to pine trees. Four bodies in blue were crumpled in various places around the trees at the edge of the clearing. Alendyr and several of his men were herding two prisoners toward Mykel. Bhoral and several rankers from dürd squad appeared out of the trees to the left of the prisoners.

  “Sir!” called Alendyr. “Caught these two trying to sneak down the hillside.”

  Mykel rode toward them and reined up. “What company are you? Who’s in charge?”

  “That was Alawart. You killed him.”

  “He was the squad leader?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, sir!” snapped Bhoral, raising his rifle and pointing it at the captive’s midsection.

  “Yes, sir!” squeaked the young man, barely more than a youth. •

  “Who
was over him?”

  “That was the captain. Captain Mahwalt. He is Seltyr Ghondjyr’s nephew.” The youthful captive looked at Bhoral, and added quickly, “Sir.”

  “Does the seltyr have another company besides yours?”

  “No, sir. Each seltyr has one company, except Seltyr Anatoljyr. He has two.”

  “How many seltyrs are there west of the mountains?”

  “I don’t know… sir. Ten, fifteen.”

  Mykel guessed those numbers were high, but he had no way to tell. “Did Captain Mahwalt say when he’d be back?”

  “He said we were to stay for two days, then ride south to the road to the west.”

  “Tonight, then, that was when you were to meet them there?”

  The youthful trooper shrugged helplessly.

  Mykel turned to the second ranker, with scratches across his face and cheek and blood running along his jawline. The slight wounds looked to have come from contact with pine trees, rather than weapons. “You. How many companies came over the mountains?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We rode with Seltyr Hamadjyr’s men. There weren’t any others.”

  “Did you attack or fight any other Cadmians?”

  “No, sir. We heard shots to the north, but the captain said we weren’t going there… sir.”

  “How many other companies are there in the west?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Mykel kept questioning, but got no better answers. Abruptly, he glanced around the small clearing on the northwest side of the low hill. He could only see a score of his troopers. While he didn’t sense anything nearby, nor could he see any troopers on the mine road, his men shouldn’t be spread through the trees longer than necessary. He turned to Bhoral. “Get everyone re-formed back on the road. We’re spread all over the place here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bhoral turned his mount. “Re-form on the road! By squads! Pass it on!”

  Mykel picked his way through the trees, occasionally seeing a sprawled body in the brilliant blue tunic of the western seltyrs. Once they were back on the road, and waiting for third and fourth squads to rejoin them, Mykel looked up at the hill, then southeast.