Cadmian's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Dainyl asked a few more questions, listening carefully to the responses, before saying, “Thank you. I appreciate your spending the time.” He turned. “Captain…if we could proceed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sevasya led Dainyl back across the humid courtyard. “For the moment, Undercaptain Sledaryk has been the one drafting flight and schedule rotations for my approval.”

  Dainyl thought he understood.

  The two walked back into headquarters, halting at the first door inside the building.

  Sledaryk jumped to his feet. “Submarshal! Captain!”

  “The submarshal wanted a few words with you, Undercaptain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dainyl took a moment to study Sledaryk, both with eyes and Talent. Two things were clear. First, Sledaryk was relatively young for an undercaptain, and, second, he was strongly Talented, if not particularly well trained.

  “How long did you remain in Dulka after Captain Veluara took command?”

  “Two days, sir. Just long enough to gather my gear. I was told that Captain Sevasya needed an experienced undercaptain because one of hers had put in for a stipend. I took my pteridon; it’s easier that way. I was told that Undercaptain Hasya flew hers to Alustre to be transferred to a new—another Myrmidon.”

  Sevasya nodded. “Hasya was tired of the damp and the heat and wanted to be in Alustre. She’d found a position with the Highest of the East, with the chief of trade. It was easier just to transfer one pteridon to a new flyer.”

  “Did you meet Captain Veluara?”

  “Yes, sir, but only once or twice. She was pretty busy with the new regional alector. That’s Quivaryt. Nothing much got done after…after you were there. Not for a while, anyway.”

  “I imagine,” replied Dainyl dryly. “How would you describe Captain Veluara? I’m met her, but I’d like your impressions.”

  “Ah…yes, sir.” Sledaryk paused. “She looks young, sir, but she’s a lot older than she looks, you know, the way Majer Faerylt was. She got right on the business of getting the company moved to the new compound—knew where everything was supposed to be and who was doing what. She knew everyone’s name and background, even.”

  “Would you say that she seemed very experienced?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much so, sir.”

  “Did she say anything about what would happen to the old compound?”

  “Undercaptain Lyzetta asked about that. Captain Veluara said that was one of the things she was working out with the RA, and that the Highest of the East had already made plans for the old compound once we’d moved. She didn’t say what they were, just that it was up to the Highest.”

  “Did anyone in Seventh Company know Captain Veluara from an earlier assignment?”

  “I don’t think so, sir, but I didn’t ask anyone. I was getting ready to leave.”

  “Did Captain Veluara spend much time debriefing you?”

  “No, sir. I mean, we spent maybe a glass where she asked about my squad, and the rankers in it, how long they’d been there, if they were local or from places like Alustre, whether any were married, just background information.”

  “Did any replacement for you arrive, or do you know if the captain intended to promote someone?”

  “She said that Submarshal Alcyna would be dispatching an undercaptain from Alustre shortly.”

  Dainyl nodded slowly. “Thank you, Undercaptain. I think that you’ll find you’ve been extraordinarily fortunate to be transferred to Eighth Company, and I do trust you’ll appreciate that.” He looked to Sevasya. “Captain…I’ll need a few moments of your time.”

  “Of course.” Sevasya led the way back to her study.

  Neither officer said anything until the captain closed the door.

  “How did she think she could get away with it?” asked Sevasya. “Except she did, didn’t she?”

  “It makes sense. Noryan was a translation orphan. No one knew him, not really. Alcyna picked him when he was still young and then transferred him to Fourth Company.”

  “How did you figure out that Noryan wasn’t Noryan?”

  Dainyl shrugged. “I couldn’t say. He didn’t feel right, and some of the reports—I know one was changed.” All of that was true, although it wasn’t the whole truth.

  “You think Veluara is one, too?”

  Dainyl would have wagered that, based on his own earlier observations of the newly promoted captain and on what Sledaryk had said, but he replied, “I don’t know. It’s clear that she’s part of whatever they’re planning.”

  “What are you going to do? If I might ask, sir?”

  “For the moment, nothing. One doesn’t accuse two distinguished officers without some sort of hard proof.”

  “And a great deal of support from one’s superiors,” she added.

  “That, too.” Dainyl admitted with a laugh. After a moment, he asked, “And what are you going to do, as a Myrmidon captain and daughter of a Duarch?”

  “What I can—guard Lysia and do my duty. I’m barred from contacting him, and he’s conditioned against listening to anything I might say.” Sevasya looked squarely at Dainyl. “You have better access to him than do I.”

  Dainyl scarcely had any access. He had enough rank to get perhaps a single appointment, and that would have to be through Lystrana. That would put both of them—and their unborn daughter—in even greater danger. What would he say to the Duarch? That he believed the Highest of the East was conspiring, perhaps with the Duarch of Ludar, to do…what? Dainyl still had no idea at what end all the conspiring was aimed. To gain power and depose the Archon while bringing the Master Scepter to Acorus? To thwart the possibility that Zelyert might want to stop the Master Scepter from coming to Acorus and thus support the Archon? What if Khelaryt happened to be subtly encouraging—or not discouraging—Zelyert’s plans, whatever they were? Should the Master Scepter come to Acorus?

  The more he saw what Brekylt and his allies were doing, the less he seemed able to determine why.

  “I have some access, Captain. But without more knowledge, it will not be useful, except to secure my death.”

  “Then…had you best not discover it, Submarshal?”

  Dainyl smiled, wryly. “Like all knowledge of value, it is not easy to discover, and once discovered, to understand.”

  In the end, Dainyl walked briskly back to the Table chamber, his Talent-senses alert, even as he recognized that Lysia was one of the few places where he was relatively safe.

  Sulerya was standing beside the Table as he entered the chamber.

  “Are things stable?” he asked.

  “For now. Probably for a while. At least until the next time you try a translation somewhere.” She tilted her head slightly. “Did you discover what you were looking for?”

  “Yes, but it’s not anything I can use to prove what’s happening.”

  “You may never be able to prove anything, Submarshal. Does that mean you will not act for what you see as the best?”

  “That is a good question, Recorder. I don’t have an answer for it.”

  “You’d best find one, then.”

  Dainyl glanced at the Table. How safe was it? Did he have any choice?

  “Submarshal Dainyl?”

  “Yes, Sulerya?”

  “The Table tracking systems don’t seem to be functioning at the moment.” The hint of a tired smile crossed her mouth. “That won’t affect your translation, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Dainyl stepped onto the Table.

  The purpled darkness between Tables was undisturbed. Dainyl did not even sense a single flash of green beyond, and there were no attempts at impeding his progress. The silver-white barrier dissolved away from him.

  His uniform was scarcely chill when he stepped off the Table.

  Chastyl stood waiting. The recorder inclined his head to Dainyl. “Welcome back, Submarshal. I’m glad to see that you had no trouble with the Tables.”

  “So am I…and thank you.” What puzzled Dainyl about the gre
eting was the genuineness behind the words. Chastyl was clearly pleased to see him, although it was equally clear that the recorder had no special liking for him.

  Dainyl arrived at Myrmidon headquarters less than a half glass after morning muster. He was still standing in his study, looking at the reports on the side of his desk, when Shastylt appeared in the study doorway.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Is something wrong?” Dainyl reinforced his shields.

  “Outside of having a deputy I can’t find? No. That’s bad enough.”

  Dainyl wasn’t about to argue about half a glass, although Shastylt was often gone for longer periods. “I’ve been in Lysia—”

  “Zelyert told me that he’d strongly suggested you confine your activities to your duties.” Shastylt stepped into the study.

  “I was there on Myrmidon tasks, sir.” Dainyl slipped around his superior and closed the door.

  “Such as?”

  “I have fairly strong indications that many, if not all, of the officers in three of the four eastern companies are not who we think they are. Noryan is probably a translated Myrmidon from Ifryn.”

  “He’s from Ifryn. He came here as an infant. I checked.”

  “No, sir. The original Noryan did. He was shorter than I am, rail-thin, and nervous. He had no sense of humor, and didn’t want to talk to anyone. He liked horses and pteridons and had no sense of command at all. Alcyna transferred him from Eighth Company just before Captain Sevasya took command. The Noryan who appeared in Alustre is almost as tall as Khelaryt, as muscular as a bull, with shoulders to match, with a low-key sense of humor, and leadership skills. He was an undercaptain in less than two years, a captain in two more…”

  “That would explain much.”

  “You don’t seem surprised, sir.”

  “The only thing surprising is that you’re still alive.” Shastylt laughed, an edge to his voice that Dainyl had not heard before.

  “Why? At this point, I don’t have anything that I could bring before the Highest or the Duarch. There might be two alectors left alive anywhere who know firsthand what I just told you, and I doubt either could say absolutely that Noryan is not Noryan. Besides, the Noryan we know has an outstanding record since he was transferred from Eighth Company.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. The Table grid almost collapsed yesterday, and stability wasn’t restored until this morning. You could have been a wild translation by now.”

  “I was fortunate.”

  “More than you know, Dainyl.” Shastylt stood silent for a moment. “Do you have any idea what Brekylt has in mind?”

  “No. Not besides building his own power, that is. It’s clear he and Alcyna essentially have control of Third, Fourth, and Seventh Companies, and that they control the Tables in Alustre, Norda, Dulka, and Prosp. They’re not pleased with you or with the High Alector of Justice. I was hoping you might be able to tell me why.”

  Shastylt fingered his squarish chin, then nodded. After several moments, he began to speak, slowly. “Brekylt thought he should have been named High Alector of Justice, and Samist had pressed for that. Khelaryt thought differently, and in a difference of opinion between the Duarches, the final decision rests with the one who has direct supervision. Khelaryt chose Zelyert. As Zelyert has hinted, he has great concerns about how lifeforce growth is managed. Too rapid and too widespread a growth of manufactories will indeed increase indigen lifeforce, but that spike in lifeforce is followed by a rapid decline in overall world lifeforce because the growth is fueled by the destruction of things like the forests, too many fields bearing only one crop, and too much killing of nondomesticated plants and animals. Brekylt and Samist want to increase indigen lifeforce and present that as a reason why Acorus is suited to hold the Master Scepter. Zelyert and Khelaryt believe that a broader-based lifeforce mass is more conducive to supporting the Master Scepter. In effect, the Archon has only said that he will evaluate both Efra and Acorus when the time comes.”

  All of that might well be true, Dainyl noted, but it was far from a complete explanation. “Are they afraid Zelyert and Khelaryt might be able to prove they are right?”

  “I think they fear that they are wrong and that Acorus—and they—will suffer.”

  “How will they suffer? If the Master Scepter does not come here, will they not remain as they are?”

  “No. Khelaryt and Samist will be judged to have failed, and will be replaced by regents of the Archon. All those serving them will be examined. Some may remain. Some certainly will not.”

  “And if Samist and Brekylt managed to take total control of Acorus, what would the Archon do?”

  “If they proved it could best support the Master Scepter…nothing. If not, they would be cast into the long translation tunnel without end.”

  Dainyl felt a cold shiver go down his spine.

  “You tell me, Submarshal,” said Shastylt. “Are they planning such a revolt?”

  “I don’t know. I would judge that they are planning for that possibility.”

  “That is what Zelyert has feared—and planned for.”

  “Might I ask how?”

  “You might, but I cannot say, because he has not answered that very same question for me.”

  That also was true, Dainyl sensed. It also raised another question. “Can we do anything about Alcyna—and those companies?”

  “Can you imagine anything worse than Myrmidon fighting Myrmidon? The drain on lifeforce from any prolonged battles would doom Acorus to being forever subservient—if it didn’t plunge the world into immediate chaos and destruction. Your task is much the same as it was in Dramur. We must keep the Myrmidons out of the conflict, not because we do not support the Highest and the Duarch, but because we do.”

  “Wouldn’t it just be simpler for Alcyna or Brekylt to have a mishap of some sort?”

  “It would indeed. Do you know anyone who could accomplish that without leaving a trail back to us—and setting Myrmidon against Myrmidon? It’s ironic, but they face exactly the same problem.”

  “So…lesser individuals who support them—or us—suffer mishaps…until someone can break the stalemate in a decisive way—without ravaging the lifeforce of the world?”

  “You have an admirable grasp of the situation, Dainyl. Within those confines, we do what we can and we must. As always. I’ll leave you to think about it.”

  After Shastylt departed, Dainyl walked back to the window. The situation was worse than he had feared, and in more ways than he had expected. He also noted one other interesting point: Shastylt had given him no orders and no directives. They had only been implied.

  He also realized something else. Shastylt had never committed to either side, not really. That surprised Dainyl not at all.

  43

  Mykel was up well before dawn on Quinti, checking with his officers. He hadn’t slept all that well, with dreams about the ancient soarers—the first he’d had in some time, but they brought back all too clearly the sense of antiquity and power that he had felt so strongly when he had met the soarer above the mine in Dramur.

  The battalion had spent the day before returning some semblance of order to the garrison. Mykel had also made sure that the ammunition wagon had been unloaded and the contents stored in the old armory, underground in the vaults that hadn’t been that damaged—just missing whatever ammunition might once have been there. He didn’t want Third Battalion’s ammunition out in the open. The duty guards had seen no signs of irregulars or brigands, but Mykel hadn’t expected they’d appear for a few days, not until word got around, especially since they seemed only to have targeted the Cadmians.

  The garrison roof had remained intact in most places. That might have been because the roof tiles were cracked and in poor shape and probably would have come apart if anyone had tried to remove them, but Hyalt wasn’t known for heavy rain, and any roof over the troopers was better than none.

  Late on Quattri Mykel had
visited the chandlery and several other places and gotten the names of some growers. Before long, he’d have to work out provisioning arrangements—along with everything else—because the provisions on the wagons, replenished last in Tempre, would last but another week at best. Then there was the need for fodder for the mounts. Regular furnishings and equipment for the new compound would be sent by wagon from Tempre once it was nearing completion.

  Morning muster was barely completed on Quinti when two townsmen appeared, one driving a battered cart pulled by a swaybacked horse, and the other sitting beside him. The cart creaked to a halt outside the gap in the walls that had once held a gate, but even the iron hinges had been pulled out of the brickwork.

  Suspecting that the two were the guild heads, Mykel walked toward them. By the time he reached the cart, the driver stood beside the horse, holding the traces loosely. He was a squarish indigen, with darker skin, strong blunt features, and brown hair showing streaks of gray. His broad hands were callused, with a pinkish welt across the back of his left hand. “Poeldyn, Majer. Building guild. Troral said you’d like to be seeing us.”

  “Mykel,” the majer offered. “I did.” He looked to the second man, thinner, perhaps a few years younger, with a full reddish blond beard.

  “Styndal—crafters.”

  “We’re going to be relocating and building a larger compound.”

  “On this hill…should a been done long time back,” muttered Poeldyn.

  “What about this hill?”

  “Just…unlucky…always has been.” Poeldyn forced a smile. “What you be needing?”

  “We’ll need stoneworkers, masons, carpenters, tilers…”

  “You got plans…and someone who knows what they mean?” asked Poeldyn.

  “I have the plans, and I know something about what they mean.” Mykel grinned. “What I don’t, I’m sure you two do.”

  “We don’t work for free,” added Styndal.

  “I have some golds, and a letter of credit for the balance, so much to be drawn every month.”

  “Credits…aren’t good for…”