Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Have the marshal come in, Bharyt.”

  Faint as the words were, blocked by the heavy oak, Dainyl could make them out, but he waited for his escort to open the door. This time, Bharyt merely stood outside and closed the door behind Dainyl.

  Khelaryt was standing beside his desk and had apparently been studying the books on the inside wall shelves. “So many volumes, it seems, and yet they are but a fraction of what has been written and lost. It represents the tragedy of alectors, in a fashion. We seek knowledge and strive for beauty, and in our striving, must leave behind so much of what we have created, time after time.”

  “That is a tragedy,” admitted Dainyl, not knowing what else he could have said.

  The Duarch turned directly toward Dainyl, radiating, as always, his Talent with such force that it was almost a pressure. His deep violet eyes were friendly. “We should sit.”

  Dainyl waited and then took the corner seat after the Duarch had settled himself.

  “The High Alector of Justice was insistent that you brief me on recent developments, Marshal. Most insistent.”

  “He was rather insistent,” Dainyl replied dryly.

  “That is less than favorable, and it would be wise to ask what agenda he pursues.”

  “His agenda is always to have someone else do what is difficult, whenever possible.”

  “You sound critical of your High Alector. So soon after you have become marshal?”

  “I did not say that it was necessarily a bad strategy, sir, but for me not to recognize what is almost invariably leads me to greater self-deception.”

  “So practical you are, Dainyl. Do you believe in nothing of a higher nature? Destiny? Fate?”

  “I’m not certain either destiny or fate, should they exist, represent a higher nature.”

  Khelaryt shook his head slowly, but a faint smile appeared. “What are you here to tell me?”

  “First, that the Cadmian Third Battalion has reinforced Fourth Battalion in Iron Stem, and that they did so by moving directly there from Hyalt without returning to Elcien. Their commanding officer may have latent Talent, but given the difficulties with the ancients and the Reillies, it seemed best to exploit that possibility, rather than remove Myrmidons from Elcien.” Since Khelaryt might well have received information indirectly from Captain Lyzetta, Dainyl felt that there was less risk in addressing the issue. It also meant that Zelyert could not use the information against him. “Second, I have transferred Seventh Company from Dulka to Tempre, at least for several seasons, in order to preclude any more Myrmidon officers being suborned by the High Alector of the East.”

  “I had heard of the majer’s possible Talent,” replied the Duarch. “Even a latent lander Talent can be dangerous. They can breed like rodents,” Khelaryt pointed out. “Are you willing to take that gamble, on behalf of all alectors?”

  “He is a young majer, and correct in his manner. He has neither wife nor lady friends and is unlikely to produce offspring in the next season or so. That, I would judge, is a lesser risk than employing Myrmidons. There is also the possibility, since he tends to lead his men, that he may not survive this deployment. If he does, then I will deal with the situation.” Exactly how, Dainyl didn’t want to dwell on, not yet.

  “You like this lander. That is dangerous.”

  “I cannot say that I like him. I respect him, and he has been effective—extremely effective—when other officers have not. I do not feel that I can sacrifice effectiveness on the grounds that he might develop full Talent and have offspring.”

  “You’re flying close to the storms, Marshal.”

  “We all are, sir.”

  The Duarch glanced toward the study door, then back at Dainyl. “What else are you to convey?”

  “The High Alector also said to mention that the numbers of unauthorized long translations from Ifryn continue to increase.”

  “By how much?” The very air around the Duarch seemed to darken.

  “He would not tell me. He said he would have exact figures for you shortly.”

  “No wonder he was insistent.” Khelaryt’s laugh was grim. “Is that the real reason he wanted you here?”

  “Knowing that he thinks of multiple uses for everything and everyone, possibly, sir.”

  “In this time when we await the arrival of the Master Scepter, that is not totally undesirable,” mused the Duarch, his face twisting slightly, as if he were being precluded from thinking or considering some aspect of the Master Scepter.

  Dainyl swallowed. He might not have another opportunity, and he would not refuse to say what was obvious to all any longer. “It would appear that the Master Scepter is being transferred to Efra, sir.”

  Talent surged and solidified. Darkness swirled around the Duarch. “That cannot be. It must not be.” A blast of Talent flew toward Dainyl.

  Somehow, he deflected it, but that deflection shredded his shields down to nearly nothing.

  “From those fleeing Efra,” he said quickly, hoping to forestall another Talent blast, “we have learned that many of those closest to the Archon have already translated there. The guards at the Tables on Efra are slaughtering scores every day—”

  Even with all his remaining Talent in his shields Dainyl found himself flung against the inside wall bookcases.

  “You dared tell me this?” demanded Khelaryt, striding from behind his table desk.

  Yet as Khelaryt advanced, Dainyl sensed that the Duarch’s Talent had diminished. He was probably more Talented and stronger than Dainyl, especially with the punishment Dainyl had just taken, but he was no longer the colossus of Talent that he had been.

  “No one else would,” replied Dainyl, straightening himself and standing, facing what might well be his end.

  Khelaryt halted and offered a sad smile, so at odds with his rage of a few moments before. “They did not dare. Not for the reasons you might think, however.”

  “The artificial infusion of Talent?” guessed Dainyl. “Was it tied to the shadowmatch only until you knew where the Master Scepter would be transferred?”

  “That was part of it.”

  “And no one wanted to reduce your power because they feared each other?”

  “And Samist,” pointed out Khelaryt. “If I could, I would make you the next Duarch, just to watch how you would handle such fighting. I cannot, and that means I will likely have to remove one of the High Alectors, if only to prove that I can.” Khelaryt was still an impressive alector, but the huge mass of Talent that had surrounded him and radiated from him had dissipated. “For what you have done, Marshal, there is a price.”

  “Sir?”

  “I am dispatching you immediately to deliver the same message to Duarch Samist. You will deliver that message.” A cold steeliness filled his words.

  Dainyl understood.

  The Duarch walked to a small side table and opened the single drawer. From it, Khelaryt extracted a purple sash trimmed in green, with the eight-pointed star of the Duarch emblazoned in gold on the section that would cross the chest. “This will allow you entry to Samist directly. If anyone would deny you, it provides you the justification to do what is necessary to speak to the Duarch of Ludar. You may have to destroy even a High Alector to reach the Duarch. Do not hesitate to do so, or all of Acorus may be lost. You are to go to the Hall of Justice and translate immediately to Ludar. Do not let anyone delay you for any purpose. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you return—if you return—we will discuss what must be done next. Return here. Do not speak to anyone except Samist, and especially do not speak to Zelyert.” Khelaryt extended the sash. “Put it on now.”

  Dainyl took the sash and donned it.

  29

  As Mykel rode out from the garrison on Duadi, a cold breeze blew out of the northeast, even though it was close to midmorning. The penetrating chill of the wind suggested that the coming winter would be anything but mild in Iron Stem. He turned the roan southward on the the eternastone high
road, with the green tower behind him, heading toward the ironworks.

  The first structure south of the open space that surrounded the Cadmian garrison was a small school, set on the east side of the road, with battered brick walls that had once been whitewashed, but now held only scattered and peeling white remnants of the wash. Immediately south of the school was what passed as a green or a park, bordered by low stone walls, but Mykel saw only a few patches of grass and no bushes. There were stone benches, set almost at random.

  South of the park were dwellings, small houses with narrow windows that ran for nearly a vingt before giving way to shops and dingier buildings. As he continued south, the ironworks loomed larger and larger on the west side of the road that had become the main north–south street of Iron Stem. Here and there, women, small children, and old men hurried through the chill morning, bundled in faded and heavy woolen coats. None looked in Mykel’s direction.

  The closer he got to the ironworks, the more each breath he took burned, as the air itself became acrid with a mixture of fine dust and smoke and vapor from the ironworks. Just ahead of him, one of the short black wagons, bearing iron pigs and drawn by eight dray horses, groaned as the teamster eased it onto the high road, heading south for Dekhron.

  Mykel turned the roan up the paved way leading to the works. In the loading yard to his left, on the south side, he counted seven mals working two of the winches that lifted the iron pigs onto the transport wagons. Three armed guards, wearing gray, watched from the loading dock, their iron-tipped staves casually ready. Mykel rode on, up to the compact brick building that Hamylt had said held the works’ supervisor’s spaces. There, he tied his mount to the iron hitching rail and dismounted. The door lever was coated with grime, but Mykel opened it anyway and stepped inside.

  “Sir?” A narrow-faced young man, barely more than a youth, looked up from a stack of papers he appeared to be sorting on the table before him.

  “Majer Mykel to see Supervisor Curosyn.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young clerk hurried to the half-open door on the left. “Sir, it’s the new Cadmian majer to see you.”

  “Have him come in.” The tired voice barely carried to Mykel.

  The lander who stood behind a table desk piled with stacks of papers was probably only five years older than Mykel, but his forehead was already heavily lined, and his eyes were slightly sunken in a pallid face. “Curosyn, Majer. Welcome to the ironworks. Such as they are.”

  “You’re in charge?” asked Mykel. “Of both the mines and the ironworks?”

  “For the moment. Since the end of harvest. I’m really an assistant mining engineer, but Miramyn and Faosyr left town once Majer Hersiod started trying to find ways to execute anyone who disagreed with him. That was the story, anyway. No one has seen them since.” Curosyn shook his head. “I’m the acting supervisor. I report to the High Alector of Engineering in Ludar, or rather to some alectress who’s his assistant.” Belatedly, he gestured to the single chair in front of the table desk. “How can I help you?”

  Mykel took the chair. “Why did the miners refuse to keep mining?”

  Curosyn took a deep breath. “Every year we’ve had to go deeper to follow the coal seams. Every year we’ve lost a few more miners than the year before. Then when the old barracks burned, things got worse. Miramyn couldn’t get brick or stone, and he finally worked out something for timber. I guess it was against the Code, because the Myrmidons showed up, and they had the forester flogged. Someone took a shot at one of them with a crossbow…and one of them flamed some loggers. That got back to the miners, and a bunch of the mals broke out and headed out to join up with the Reillies…”

  Mykel listened, intently, concentrating on both what the engineer said and how he said it, but he could detect no sense of untruth. The longer he listened, the more he was convinced that some alector, perhaps the old marshal, had deliberately set things up to go wrong. No matter what the dispatches and records had reported, he couldn’t believe that anyone who had been thinking clearly wouldn’t have seen what had happened. But then, it could be that the missing engineers had seen things clearly, and had been quietly removed and replaced by an assistant so overwhelmed that he could barely keep things together. Why someone wanted matters to go wrong was another question, and one for which he had no answer. Not yet.

  He let Curosyn talk, before finally asking, “What are your production levels right now? What they used to be? Three-quarters of that? Half?”

  “A little more than half for the coal mines…we’re still working on trying to clear one of the main shafts for number two. You can’t operate a blast furnace without coke, and you can’t make coke without coal. We’re only at three-quarters production on the iron ore, but I’m having them stockpile the ore we can’t process now. Once coal production is back up, we’ll run through the backlog pretty quickly. The iron’s playing out, though. I reported that more than a year ago. The alectress just told me to mine as much as we could as fast as we could for as long as we could.” Curosyn shrugged, then sighed. “You do what you can.”

  As much as possible as quickly as possible—someone had wanted as much iron as they could get. The High Alector of Engineering? “Did anyone say why they needed all that iron?”

  “No, sir. I asked once in a dispatch, indirectly, of course. I never got an answer, and I didn’t want to press.”

  “I heard that the miners were gathered peacefully, and Majer Hersiod rode up and shot them down. Is that true?”

  “You’ve been talking to the outholders. It wasn’t that simple. Some of the Squawt and Reillie hotheads were there, too, and they were trying to get the miners to take up weapons. That was because Majer Hersiod rounded up some of them to work in the mines. That didn’t work. They either escaped or got shot. So when the Cadmians showed up, some of the Squawts and Reillies fired at them. They thought it was another roundup. That’s how that all started.”

  That, unfortunately, made more sense…but raised another question. “What were they doing out there? I thought the mals were confined to the compound.”

  Curosyn’s laugh was short and bitter. “What compound? The walls are maybe two yards high. We never did get the timber and brick to rebuild the burned barracks, so the mals are jammed in at night in the newer ones. We’re short of guards, and we can’t get the golds to hire more. The only reason most of them stay is that they’ve got no coin and they get fed, and they have nowhere else to go. The townspeople would just as soon gut ’em as talk to them, and the women here are as tough as the men, sometimes tougher. We lose a miner to them almost every week, dumped in the streets behind the brothel. No one ever knows anything.”

  “They could go to the Reillies.”

  Curosyn laughed. “You have to survive in the wild for a week before they’ll even talk to you. Most mals are townies.”

  Mykel shook his head sympathetically. “You’ve got your hands full.”

  “I’d just as soon leave, but there’s nowhere to go these days—except as a laborer—and I’m not that desperate.”

  When he left the ironworks supervisor, Mykel walked slowly to his roan and mounted. Iron Stem was a side of Corus he hadn’t seen before, and one he almost wished he hadn’t. How could the alectors have let the situation get so far out of hand? Or didn’t they care?

  As he turned the roan northward and rode back toward the garrison, he reminded himself to pass the word about the women in Iron Stem to the rankers. He wasn’t about to put the town off-limits, not yet, not unless the townspeople started killing Cadmians.

  30

  “Don’t wait for me this time,” Dainyl told Sharua as he left the duty coach outside the Hall of Justice, straightening the sash he had gotten from Khelaryt. “I’ll be a while.” And that would be if he were skillful and fortunate.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Under a cloudy sky that promised a cold rain long before he returned from Ludar, Dainyl hurried up the stone steps, then skirted the main area of the receiving hall
, where, for once, Zelyert himself was listening to the petitioners who assembled. Grateful that he would not have to explain anything to the High Alector immediately, Dainyl made his way through the concealed entrance and down the steps to the lower level.

  “Good day, Marshal,” offered one of Zelyert’s newer assistants, who peered out of her study as Dainyl approached the closed door to the Table chamber. Her eyes widened at the sash he wore.

  “Thank you.” Dainyl opened the door to the foyer, closing it behind him before opening the inner door and stepping into the Table chamber.

  One of the gray-clad guards glanced toward Dainyl but for a moment before returning his attention to the Table itself. There stood a blocky and muscular alectress in a purple coverall, her squarish face intent on Chastyl, who stood at the end of the Table.

  Dainyl caught a glimpse of the figure of an older alectress, her dark hair streaked with silver, sprawled beside the Table, just before her figure disintegrated into dust.

  “You…killed her…” stammered the alectress on the Table.

  “Do you have a pass from a High Alector on Ifryn?” Chastyl’s voice was almost bored.

  The blocky alectress laughed bitterly. “At my age…with my figure?”

  “What skills do you have?”

  “I was an assistant to the concertmaster of Cheutorl.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Whatever he wanted.”

  “Do you play an instrument?”

  “No…I—”

  Chastyl nodded to the guard. The lightcutter flared, and the alectress toppled off the Table, her body beginning to disintegrate even before it reached the stone floor.

  “She was one of the older ones, hanging on,” Chastyl said to Dainyl. “They’re too much of a drain on lifeforce unless they have special skills or they’re pregnant. She didn’t have any real skills, no abilities. We tend to forget that there are alectors who aren’t much better than steers, particularly on Ifryn.” He took in the sash. “To Ludar? Give my best to Puleryt if you get the chance. You better translate before we get another batch.”