Was this what regional alectors dealt with?
As he went from file case to file case, Mykel made certain that he left everything in the same apparent order. Even hurrying as fast as he could, it took him more than a glass to glance through all the file boxes. There was nothing about the Alector’s Guard, nothing about rifles, and nothing about Hyalt.
Standing there, he frowned. That wasn’t quite right. He’d gone through the papers so quickly that he couldn’t conclude that. There certainly wasn’t anything obvious there about those subjects, and he had the feeling that there wouldn’t be.
With a last glance around, and after slipping the order book into his tunic, he made his way from the private study back into the main upper-level corridor and then down the main staircase to the main level. From there he turned right—west—and followed the corridor to the northwest corner.
The two Cadmian guards looked up as Mykel walked toward them.
“Majer, sir. All’s quiet here, sir.”
“Good. I’m going down to inspect the area.”
After the slightest hesitation, the taller guard—Beilyt, Mykel recalled belatedly—replied, “Yes, sir.”
“I shouldn’t be too long, but you never know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mykel stepped up and opened the door, still missing its lock, then closed it and took several steps before pausing, trying to extend his hearing, listening.
“…wouldn’t go down there…”
“…think he ought to be there?”
“It’s his head. That’s why majers get more coins.”
“…hope he’s not down there long…”
Mykel continued to make his way down the circular stone staircase. At the bottom he turned and walked quickly down the empty corridor, dimly lighted by the light-torches in their infrequent bronze wall brackets. When he came to the narrow square arch, in which a solid oak door was set, he stopped and studied it.
As before, a sheen of the unseen purple power covered all the wood. Given the amount of power and the violent reaction that had occurred when he had used a rifle in his own way on the lock of the upper level door, Mykel wasn’t about to try any form of force.
Thinking about the submarshal’s wound, he took out the tiny dagger of the ancients from its hidden belt slot and touched the lock with it. A flare-point of light appeared—the kind he could sense but not see and the purpleness receded for a span or so from the point of the dagger.
Somehow, Mykel didn’t think that was the answer. He replaced the dagger in its belt slot and continued to ponder the puzzle. The submarshal had entered the chamber, without explosions, and he had returned the same way. That meant there had to be a way to release the purple energy.
Mykel stood before the closed door, letting his senses accept what was there. After several moments, he began to discern a pattern. A heavier line of purple ran from the lock and door handle to a node on the inside of the door frame. That node was like a knot, energy tied within energy.
How could he untie that knot? He had the feeling that if he “cut” it, the energy would explode—and probably rebound against him.
Slowly, he tried to trace the patterns of energy, seeking a beginning, or an end, to the knot or lock. The effort to mentally follow the energy threads was wearing, and despite the coolness of the corridor, he could feel himself beginning to sweat. After a time, he located the end of the thread. He used his own ability to tug on it.
Nothing happened.
He tugged and twisted, but the lock remained in place. He attempted to let the knot retrace itself and unwind. That didn’t work, either. Next he tried linking the ends of the coiled and twisted energy, but the two repelled each other.
It had to be something relatively simple, he told himself. It had to be.
What if he turned the one end inside out, and let it recoil? He wasn’t certain if that was how to describe what he had in mind, but it was worth a try.
No sooner had he started the process than, with a faint purple flash, the lock vanished.
He extended his hand to the door lever, gingerly, and still holding what he thought of as his shields in place.
His fingers touched the lever. He depressed it and opened the door. Since he could not see or feel anyone in the chamber, he stepped forward, closing the door behind himself. In the exact center of the room was a black oblong of shimmering stone, not quite the height of a dining table—one of the rumored Tables. He could sense the purpleness that enshrouded it, perhaps powered it, so strong that he found his guts tightening. He forced himself to step forward, and as he did, he saw that the surface was like a silver mirror. He looked more closely and saw his own face, dark-circled green eyes under a frowning forehead and short blond hair.
He looked up from the Table and around the chamber. There was not a single hanging on the fitted stone walls and not a single furnishing in the chamber. Nor were there any alcoves or windows, or any other door except the one he had used to enter. Just the chamber and the Table, nothing more.
Although it seemed impossible, Mykel could sense, in the stone beneath the Table, what seemed like a misty purple-blackness that extended immeasurably into the distance. And beneath that…the greenish blackness that he had sensed on the hillcrest to the west of the old garrison in Hyalt.
Should he try to find out more about the Table?
How could he not try? Except he wasn’t about to attempt to travel anywhere.
He let his perceptions travel across the Table, but he could only sense the purpleness that welled up from it, linked to the blackish purple mist beneath the stone, as if that unseen conduit powered the Table.
He looked at the Table closely once more, trying to call up something—a vision of his parents. There was no response. As in the case of the lock on the chamber door, Mykel suspected that, if he only knew more, operating the Table would not be impossible. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible.
After nearly half a glass of attempting various uses of his abilities, he decided that he was wasting his time, and there was always the possibility that some alector might appear and find him there. Finally, he turned, walked to the chamber door, which he opened, and stepped back out into the stone-walled hall. After a last look at the Table, he closed the door.
Should he try to replace the energy lock?
He shook his head. If he did so, the lock would be greenish, not pinkish purple, and that would tell the submarshal—or anyone who talked to him—that Mykel was definitely involved and had the ability to recognize and undo such a lock. As matters stood now, they might guess, but they would not know.
He walked briskly toward the stone staircase. Now, more than ever, he needed to find out what else Rachyla might know. She might not care for him, but she would never betray him to the alectors. That much, at least, he knew.
86
Midafternoon arrived on Quattri before Fabrytal’s scouts returned with the information on Rachyla’s location, but Mykel had already decided against waiting any longer than necessary—and against subtlety. He had no idea when alectors might appear, or even if the submarshal might send other orders.
Escorted by the full fifth squad from Fifteenth Company, he rode south from the compound and then west, into the hillside area where the wealthy lander factors lived. From what his scouts had determined, the villa of young Amaryk was but a block off the Silk Boulevard. While the villas were large, not all bore the white walls of Southgate, and most had roofs of split slate tiles, rather than the red fired-clay tiles of the south. The roads and boulevards were also narrower, although that posed little problem because those few out and about immediately removed themselves upon seeing the Cadmian squad.
“That’s the place, sir,” announced Vhanyr, the squad leader, gesturing at the gate ahead.
Mykel and the squad reined up short of the iron gates—composed of plain bars with a few iron leaves, stark compared to the gates of the villa of Seltyr Elbaryk in Southgate.
The gua
rds stationed just inside the gates glanced at Mykel, then at the twenty armed Cadmians.
“Majer Mykel to see the chatelaine Rachyla,” Mykel announced politely.
“Ah…”
“Is she here?”
“No…” stuttered the shorter guard, dressed in the light gray of a Southgate retainer.
“You’re lying. I will see her.”
The other guard whispered, “Open the gates…he must be the Cadmian officer the alectors left in charge of Tempre.”
The gates swung open.
Mykel turned to Vhanyr. “Post a few men here to keep watch.”
“Yes, sir.” The squad leader gestured. “Yulert, Buant, Juntyr, and Gheryl—you’ve got the gate duty. Report to me if you see anything strange.” He raised his voice. “Fifth squad! Rifles ready!”
Mykel eased the roan forward through the gates and past the three-yard-high walls and onto the stone drive.
Compared to Seltyr Elbaryk’s palace in Southgate or even Rachyla’s estate in Dramur, the villa was small indeed—a mere two stories fronting perhaps thirty yards. The split slate roof had been recently replaced, as shown by the darker slate than that on nearby structures, and the outer white plaster walls recently painted in gleaming white that reflected the sun.
The doorman bolted erect at the sound of hoofs coming down the narrow lane and into the small circular drive before a rotunda barely large enough for a single coach.
“The honored Amaryk is at the factorage, sir.”
“I’m here to see the chatelaine Rachyla.” Mykel’s voice was cold.
The doorman, despite the twin daggers at his belt, stepped back.
“Now.”
The retainer froze for a moment, his eyes taking in the Cadmians and their rifles, before he slowly tugged on the bell-pull.
Within moments, Rachyla stood in the doorway before the open door, clad in light green trousers, a darker green short-sleeved tunic, and boots of a green so dark they were almost black. The fabric of both tunic and trousers was shimmersilk, but she wore no jewelry. Her smile was mirthless. “Majer Mykel. I might have guessed that you would call, now that you hold Tempre.”
Beside her, the doorman paled.
“Only until alectors arrive from Elcien,” Mykel replied. “Might I come in for a moment?”
“Of course. How could we deny you?”
“Sir?” questioned Vhanyr.
“I’ll be all right for now. Out here is where you might be needed.” Mykel dismounted and handed the roan’s reins to Feranot—the ranker behind the squad leader. Then he walked up the two steps to the low entry.
He bowed slightly to Rachyla. “I appreciate your being here to see me.”
“Where else would I be, Majer? Would you come in?”
“Thank you.” Mykel stepped through the archway, his senses alert, but he could detect no one nearby except for Rachyla—and the doorman, who remained outside as the chatelaine closed the heavy iron-bound door of dark wood.
The entry foyer was in keeping with the rest of the villa—larger than most merchants’ dwellings, and far smaller than anywhere Rachyla had lived before, Mykel surmised. The interior walls had been replastered in white, which lightened the windowless space. Three archways led from the entry area.
Rachyla turned to the left, gesturing to the chamber beyond. “This is the front sitting room. It is one of the few chambers fit for visitors.”
Mykel let her lead the way and followed her into a room that was almost square. The only windows were set high on the south wall, more than two yards up from the dark brown tiled floor, and all were closed against the summer heat, kept at bay by the thick masonry walls. The walls had been replastered white. At the far end was a hearth, on which rested a blue-black porcelain heating stove. Under the windows was a narrow table, less than a yard in length, empty except for a vase filled with pale yellow roses. Flanking the table were two bookcases. Two comfortable armchairs, upholstered in a smooth beige fabric, flanked a settee similarly covered.
Mykel gestured for Rachyla to seat herself.
“For an enemy, Majer, you have always been honorable.” She took the armchair closest to the archway.
He wanted to protest that he had never been her enemy. The opponent of her father, but never her enemy. There was little point in saying so.
“All the walls were shades of brown. It was worse than that prison cell where you placed me.” Rachyla’s voice was close to expressionless. “Amaryk saw nothing wrong with the colors.”
“Colors are important.” He tied to keep his own voice equally calm.
“I understand that you slaughtered more helpless troops. That seems to be a habit with you.”
“They attacked us before dawn on Decdi. That’s scarcely the act of troops either helpless or innocent.”
Rachyla opened her mouth, then closed it. “I apologize, Majer. Like me, you must do what you can to survive in a dangerous situation. Whatever else you may do or you may be, you do not lie.”
Mykel couldn’t believe what he heard—or sensed. From Rachyla, those words were a great concession. Yet…the concession had been impartial and with little warmth. He inclined his head slightly. “I came to apologize and to request a favor. The two are related.” He smiled wryly.
She laughed softly, but, again, without warmth. “You do not like to apologize. For that alone, I will accept an apology. The favor…what you wish I must hear.”
“The apology is for not listening more closely to what you had to say about the alectors. The favor is to request that you tell me all that you know about them.”
Her laugh was close to boisterous, if still melodic in the way that he always wished he could recall, and yet never seemed to be able to do once he had left her presence. He waited.
Her deep green eyes focused on him. “You are a dangerous man, Majer. You are dangerous to yourself, and to us, but you are dangerous to the evil ones. Unlike most landers, even seltyrs, you have the power to kill those who call themselves alectors, even when they are protected.”
Mykel wondered how she had come to that conclusion, but he merely nodded for her to continue.
“My grandsire said that we were like cattle to them. We were to be fed and kept content as possible. Then, one day, perhaps before I was as old as he was then, thousands of them would appear, and the world would change. Even the seltyrs of Dramur would be dispossessed of what they had…” Rachyla shrugged. “I cannot say, but it would appear that those days are fast approaching.”
“The alectors are beginning to fight among themselves,” he volunteered.
“What do you think that means?”
“People fight when they seek the golds of others or when they believe others are trying to wrest golds from them. The alectors fight over power. That they are fighting now when they have not before suggests a time of change.” He offered a smile. “What else do you know of them?”
“They are never to be trusted. They live in our world, but they are not of our world.” She leaned forward. “One can sense what people are. Some feel good, some evil, and some…they are neither, seeking only what they wish. The evil ones feel different. They feel removed.”
“You haven’t seen that many, have you?”
“Only one, closely, but my grandsire saw many in his time. I do not think they have changed.” Her eyes challenged his. “Do you, Majer?”
“I was not around in your grandsire’s time, Rachyla, but…I believe you are right.”
“You are so kind, to grant me that I might be correct.”
Mykel concealed a wince. “What else can you tell me?”
“You are a patient man, Majer. Why are you so concerned that you would seek out a mere woman?”
“I am concerned, and you are no mere woman. You know that.” He paused, then added, “The submarshal left me in charge of the alector’s buildings and told me only to turn them over to the proper alector, and that I was to decide who was proper.”
She shook h
er head. “That is a sentence of death. You must presume to be equal to one of them, and none of them can accept that. Is the submarshal the same one as in Dramur?”
“Yes.”
“I said he had a use for you, and that he did not preserve your life out of goodness, but for a purpose.”
“You did.” He laughed softly. “I recall your words well.”
“He will play you off against his enemies. To survive, you will have to kill them, and that will prove that you are a danger to all of them.”
He nodded. “I had considered that.”
For the briefest moment, an expression he could not define crossed her face.
“Then you must kill them all, so that none can say how they perished.” She smiled coldly. “When they die, they turn to dust at that moment. That should also tell you that they are not of this world.”
If they are not of this world, how did they come here? He almost asked that question, but did not. He knew the answer; he just hadn’t realized that he did.
“You see? You understand.”
“What else?”
“Majer, you know far more than do I.”
Mykel laughed again. “That, Chatelaine Rachyla, is flattery. Beyond the work of weapons and arms, you know far more.”
“Beyond those and the ancient ones…” She paused. “You have encountered them, have you not? Even spoken with them.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Your eyes. Your whole being, it is like the dagger you carry. It was not so when…when you came to Dramur…and that feeling is stronger now. You are more rooted to the world where you are.”
His lips curled. There was little point in trying to deceive Rachyla. He looked at her. Had she changed in the way she declared he had? Her aura still seemed predominantly black, but perhaps it was more shot with green. Had his once been like that? “Yes.”
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