Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He forced himself to ignore the absolute impossibility of his location and eased back until he stood—even more hunched over—on the silver rock mirror at the back of the unnatural cave. There he concentrated, seeking not the purpled blackness of the translation tube, but the plain and deeper blackness he had latched on to before.

  His efforts seemed hard, and to take far longer, but……he was in a dark chill, if not so chill as a translation tube.

  This time, he had decided to look for the locator wedges from outside the purpleness of the translation tube. He sensed another of the amber-green squares, but decided against trying that. He didn’t want another encounter with the ancients.

  Then, through the flashing green beams and the darkness that alternated with momentary green brilliance, he began to make out the locator wedges—except they were more like cylinders, as if a triangle had been rolled so that the vertex touched the base. That wasn’t quite it, because each side of the wedge had been rolled, yet there was only one cylinder.

  Dainyl shook off his bemusement, and Talent-reached for the cylinder wedge that he hoped was Elcien, and he found himself back in the purpled translation tube with the whiteness of Elcien speeding toward him.

  Passing through the white-silver barrier was like passing through a mist of tiny unseen knives.

  He stood on the Table, throwing up his shields full—barely before the bluish beams of lightcutters flashed across him.

  “Stop! It’s the marshal.”

  Dainyl waited, then stepped off the Table.

  “I’m so sorry, Marshal. I’m so sorry, sir,” babbled the recorder. “It’s just that we’ve had wild translation after wild translation for the past half glass. We lost one guard already.”

  Dainyl sensed both the truth of Chastyl’s words, and his sincere regret.

  “You’ve got some of that Talent-green on you…like all the wild translations did,” the recorder added.

  “That’s from the ancient weapon the rebels used on me. It will take a while to wear off,” Dainyl explained. He had grave doubts that was the full explanation, but it was easier and more appropriate for the moment. “I need to get back to headquarters.”

  He also needed time—that he was running short of—to sort matters out, if he could.

  12

  In the darkness just after twilight, Mykel and Rhystan sat at the single long table in the small room that was the officers’ mess in the new compound—or would be. The single bronze wall lamp cast but a haze of light that scarcely reached the end of the table and the two officers.

  “I have to say that it’s good to sleep on a real bunk again,” offered Rhystan. “How long that will last…” He shrugged and looked at Mykel. “Have you heard from the colonel?”

  “Not a thing, but I’d judge he only got my report within the last day or so—and that’s no guarantee that he’s read it.”

  “You’ve got a feel for these sorts of things. How long do you think we’ll be staying here?” Rhystan took a last sip from the beaker of ale he had been nursing along.

  “I don’t see us being sent off until the alectors return to their compound. The two Hyalt companies can’t really provide perimeter security there and handle road patrols against brigands. When the alectors start rebuilding the compound—or if they make a decision not to—they’ll want us out of here pretty quickly, especially if they rebuild. There really aren’t enough supplies and provisions for us and for rebuilding and repairing their compound.” Mykel also doubted that the submarshal wanted a Cadmian battalion around that had learned it could kill alectors.

  “Majer…we killed alectors. We got a few here, and you took out more than that in Tempre.”

  “I know. I worry about it. The alectors went to great lengths to create the impression that they are unkillable. My guess is that we’ll be sent somewhere out of the way, and somewhere that will cost us a lot of men. I’d thought about resigning, or leaving, but…” Mykel shook his head. “It’s too late for that.”

  “If you do, more will die,” Rhystan pointed out.

  “No officer is indispensable, as much as I’d like to think otherwise.”

  “I didn’t say you were indispensable. I said more men would die. That’s because you see things others don’t.” A twisted smile followed Rhystan’s words. “That’s only true if you don’t go off alone and get yourself killed, like you almost did here in Hyalt and again in Tempre.”

  “In Tempre, I had no idea that the lower level of the alector’s building would explode.”

  “Maybe not, but everything was fine until you went first. You’ve led from the front for enough years that the men won’t mind if you do something to assure that you stay alive. The squad leaders and junior officers might even prefer keeping their commander.”

  Mykel winced. “It’s hard. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything. I just don’t like asking them to do what I won’t.”

  “Majer…look at it this way. You’ve done more than any of them have to lead from the front. You’ve been wounded something like five times—if not more—over the past two years. You’ve also proved that you lose fewer men in fights. So…they know you’re willing to put yourself on the line. Now, they’d prefer that you stay alive so that you can keep more of them alive.” Rhystan paused. “Probably not all the newer Cadmians know that, but all the senior rankers and squad leaders do, and they’re the ones who count.”

  Mykel looked down at the still polished wood of the new table, then finally lifted his eyes. “It makes sense, but it’s hard.”

  “Mykel…there are all kinds of courage. Sometimes, it takes more courage to let someone else lead, especially if you’re the kind of commander who feels for his men. And you are.” Rhystan stood abruptly. “By your leave, Majer?”

  Mykel looked at the older man, then smiled. “Good night, Rhystan…and…thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mykel sat alone in the officers’ mess for a time, thinking.

  Why had he had such a hard time seeing what Rhystan had pointed out? The older officer had earlier hinted at what he had said so bluntly, and Mykel had thought he had understood, but he’d still risked himself at times that he should not have. There were other times when there had been no real choice. At the very least, he needed to make those distinctions.

  But…how could he truly know whether he was making an accurate assessment, or deluding himself? Had he really needed to lead the way down to the Table in Tempre? No. Had he needed to scout out the rebel alectors in Hyalt? Probably. Should he have led the charge against the rebels in Tempre? No. In fact, he might have saved more of his men by holding back and shooting more alectors.

  Then there was Rachyla. Had he acted fairly and honestly in giving her the dagger of the ancients? Or had he done so out of mere desperation, because he was drawn to her, and knew he had to do something extraordinary to reach her?

  For those questions, he had no answers.

  Finally, he stood, crossed the small room, and blew out the lamp. He walked slowly back up to the visiting officers’ quarters he had taken.

  Once inside, he lit the sole lamp, then sat on the bunk and pulled out the map of Corus he had taken from the black chest in the alector’s Table chamber. He opened it carefully, feeling the smooth surfaces. When he laid it out across his knees and thighs, there were no creases where it had been folded. He took a corner and flexed it. While he did not actually try to rip the corner, he could sense that it would take tremendous pressure to tear or cut the map. The map was not drawn on paper, or not on any paper Mykel knew, and yet it was not cloth, either. Nor was it imbued with the lifeforce essence that Mykel had sensed in the Myrmidon uniforms or those of the rebel alectors.

  He studied the depiction of the continent carefully, deliberately, but what he saw was certainly not any different in outline or overall shape than any map he had seen before. He continued to peruse the map, noting that fourteen cities all were marked with tiny green octagons. Each octagon
was framed by a colored border edged in purple. Two of the octagons were Tempre and Hyalt. Others were Elcien, Ludar, and Alustre. That suggested that each octagon had to be the location of a Table. The one in Tempre was blue edged in purple, and the one at Hyalt was bordered in amber.

  Mykel had to wonder at the placement of the Tables—if indeed that was what the octagons signified. Some—such as those in Ludar, Elcien, Alustre, and Faitel—clearly made sense. But why were there Tables in some isolated places, such as Hyalt and Blackstear, and not in others, such as Sinjin and Southgate? And the other thing was that the closest Table to the Aerlal Plateau was the one in Dereka—and it was still some 250 vingts away.

  13

  The rest of Duadi had been a blur for Dainyl. He and Zernylta had gone over the pteridon schedules for the next two weeks, and that had gotten more than a little complex because Dainyl had insisted on keeping close to two full squads of First Company in Elcien. Then he’d gotten a dispatch from Captain Elysara in Lyterna. A landslide into Lake Vergren had sent a wave of water down the river that had washed out the main bridge on the high road through South Pass. That meant the high road through the Northern Pass was the only land route open to the east for at least a month—and possibly until late in the following spring if the winter snows were heavy. The pteridons out of Lyterna would have to be tasked with helping with the repairs—and that rebuilding effort would be overseen by the chief engineer of Lyterna—Paeylt. And that meant that the high-powered road-cutting equipment—even more powerful than the lightcannon Rhelyn had used at Hyalt—and the insulated suits to protect the engineers would be in Paeylt’s hands. That concerned Dainyl, but there wasn’t anything he could say or do about it.

  Dainyl had sent back a message agreeing to the use of Sixth Company pteridons, with the stipulation that no more than two squads were used at any one time. He’d also had to respond politely to the High Alector of Transport about the need for more flier trainees from the sandox coach drivers, because Zelyert had requested that Dainyl personally answer Alseryl’s charges that Dainyl’s requests for trainees were unreasonable and that Dainyl’s strategies had been exceedingly wasteful of alector personnel when Cadmians were available.

  All in all, after those incidents and his normal reports and budget preparations, Dainyl felt he had been fortunate to arrive home only a glass and a quarter late.

  “You look weary, dearest.” Those had been Lystrana’s first words to him.

  That was one way of looking at it. Exhausted, furious, and frustrated at having to explain what should have been obvious was another. He could see her own tiredness, however, and he smiled. “I think you had a day every bit as long as mine. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “We should eat.”

  He offered Lystrana his arm, and they walked to the dining room, where Sentya and Zistele were already bringing out the platters. The meal was chiafra—mint-minced beef mixed with creamed white cheese and parsley, rolled in thin pastry tubes and covered with a rich brown sauce—accompanied by steamed snap beans and heavy sweet brown bread.

  Dainyl had a second helping, not realizing that he was so hungry because he’d had nothing to eat since his early breakfast.

  Lystrana ate more sparingly, looking up after a time. “How long will the rain continue?”

  “The dispatch fliers say that the skies to the west of the bay are clearing, but that there’s snow on the higher reaches of the Coast Range peaks to the north. The ice is beginning to close in on Blackstear.”

  “An early winter, then.”

  “In the north, it would seem. It’s warmer than usual in Soupat and Southgate.” Dainyl finished the last of his bread and looked toward the kitchen. “Sentya, Zistele…it was a wonderful supper. Thank you.”

  “It was the alectress’s recipe, sir.”

  “We just followed it.”

  Dainyl smiled at the murmured demurrals from the kitchen. “It was still excellent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  After the girls had cleaned up the supper and retired, Dainyl and Lystrana settled into the front room with the two corner chairs.

  “You still look tired, Dainyl. What happened?”

  He leaned back in the chair and took a small sip of the Vyan Grande brandy. “You first.”

  Lystrana put her feet on the stool. “Chembryt’s worried. Tariff collections are falling off, and they shouldn’t be. We need more golds, not less. The engineers need more materials and more fabricators. The Myrmidons have built one new compound and enlarged another, and there are two new Cadmian compounds, one completed and the other under construction. Those don’t include the costs of the repairs at Hyalt or Tempre. Or the need for more guards for the Tables by all the Recorders of Deeds.”

  “Why are tariffs falling off?”

  “Most of the tariffs are assessed on goods being produced for sale. People—especially the landers and indigens—aren’t buying as much. And prices for coal and coke and iron are higher because of the problems at Iron Stem, and that means fewer people are buying iron, except for the engineers, and they’re buying more, which costs the Duarches exactly at a time when we have less revenue.”

  “Maybe people are worried. People don’t buy nearly so much when they are.”

  “Why would the landers and indigens be worried?” she asked. “Tempre is the only city where there have been real problems, and what you did didn’t affect anyone except a handful of alectors. Hyalt’s too small to make a difference.”

  “It could be that they feel that trouble is ahead.” He paused. “What else?”

  “Chembryt got a message from Ruvryn. He destroyed it. He only said that the High Alector of Engineering was acting as if he were the Duarch, rather than a subordinate who served at the Duarches’ pleasure. Then he asked me to draft a polite note to Ruvryn for him to sign. The note said that, unfortunately, even the High Alector of Finance could not create golds by fiat, not without ruining the patterns of trade and commerce, and that any decision to raise tariffs would have to be approved by both Duarches.”

  “Someone’s pressing Ruvryn to fabricate additional equipment.”

  “It sounds that way.” Lystrana sighed.

  “Oh…I have more bad news. Have you heard that a cliff or something fell into Lake Vergen and created a surge downstream that wiped out the high road bridge in the South Pass—and that part of the high road to Lustrea is likely to be closed for months?”

  “Why now?” She shook her head. “That will only make matters worse.”

  “Is there that much trade that travels that far?”

  “Not that much. It’s generally unique goods, but they do bring in good tariffs. We’ll lose many of those, or receive them later, and that’s in addition to the repair expenses…on top of everything else.” She forced a smile. “That was my cheerful day. What about yours?”

  “Interestingly enough, mine also began with a request from Ruvryn.” Dainyl smiled wryly.

  Even in the dim light, Lystrana caught his expression, and a smile of ironic bemusement crossed her lips.

  “He demanded three pteridon squads for a full week, to transport more than three tonnes of equipment, material, and engineers from Ludar and Faitel to Tempre and Hyalt—to repair the Tables in both places. That will require something like between thirty-five and fifty round-trip flights. It also means burning a great deal of lifeforce. If we use First Company, it means leaving no Myrmidons to speak of in Elcien.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to have Seventh Company do most of it.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Well…Seventh Company’s captain is Khelaryt’s youngest daughter. I don’t think Ruvryn knows that.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Lystrana said.

  “I thought I told you. She was the one who brought up that Asyrk was senior, because she wanted me to know that he was one of Alcyna’s plants from Ifryn.”

  “That, you did tell me, but not that she was his daughter.”

/>   “I’m sorry. I thought I had.”

  “How do you know she’s Khelaryt’s daughter?”

  “By what he revealed when I briefed him. Lyzetta got Asyrk—or someone—to write him. She can’t because part of his shadowmatch conditioning—”

  “—blocks it. That’s why Captain Sevasya can’t contact him.” Lystrana shook her head. “You didn’t know that when you gave her command of Seventh Company?”

  “No. I had no idea.”

  “That must have amused Khelaryt.”

  “I suppose so. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t even say she was his daughter. He did acknowledge that she was of his heritage, and there is a resemblance. The rest I could sense.”

  “It makes sense. Where else would they be safer?”

  Dainyl took another sip of the brandy.

  “So you minimized the danger from Ruvryn’s engineers—if they are indeed engineers. What else happened?” asked Lystrana.

  “I had to go to Lyterna to see Asulet, and he warned me about the dangers of the green, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about…” Dainyl recounted his visit and his difficulties with the return translation. “…and I was in Dramur…and there’s no Table there.”

  “Yes, there was. Didn’t you say that there was an ancient mirror Table there? When our Tables were blocked, you used theirs.”

  “It still bothers me—and just when I thought all that green Talent was fading, I’ve got another dose of it, and Asulet tells me that I’m supposed to keep it in check.”

  “Dearest, don’t complain…You’re alive and well.”

  “There’s too much going on with the ancients—and with all the wild translations.”

  “Ifryn is coming apart, and it’s bleeding over into Acorus.”

  “I don’t understand why the Archon doesn’t move the Master Scepter before things get even worse.”