Cadmians Choice (10 page)

Dainyl snorted. That
wasn’t the question. Rather the question was exactly how she had done so. He
also worried about the finagling in accounts suggested by Kaparyk, particularly
since there was no reason for an alector to amass golds other than to fund some
sort of covert operation.

This time, the duty
coach slowed to a halt under the central portico of the residence, actually a
raised entry on the second level on the front of the structure that allowed
Brekylt and his guests and visitors to avoid the administrative and government
studies and functionaries on the main level.

Dainyl opened the
door and slipped out of the coach.

“I’ll be back in two
glasses, Submarshal, and wait until you’re ready to depart,” Olyssa said
immediately.

“That won’t be a
problem?” While Dainyl knew it was the ranker’s duty, he didn’t want to appear
too callous or accepting.

“No, sir. I’d just be
waiting at headquarters, otherwise.”

“I’ll see you then.”

When Dainyl turned
and stepped off the mounting lock, a young alectress moved forward from where
she stood beside one of the unfluted stone columns flanking the covered
colonnade that led to the receiving rotunda. She wore the black-trimmed silver
tunic and black trousers that signified she was attached to the residence
staff—or to Brekylt’s personal retinue.

“Submarshal Dainyl,
High Alector Brekylt sent me to escort you, since you haven’t been to the
private quarters of the residence before.” She inclined her head slightly.

“Thank you.” Dainyl
had no doubts that he would have an escort no matter how familiar he became
with the residence and its private quarters. He followed the alectress along
the colonnade, through a vaulted archway and past two lander guards in black
and silver, one of whom opened the right half of the double doors. Once inside,
she headed straight back through a high-ceilinged entry hall, black marble
columns spaced at four-yard intervals along the white walls. The floor of the
entry hall was composed of black octagons set in white granite.

Beyond the entry, the
corridor narrowed to a width of a mere six yards, and the stone floor was white
granite. At the end of the corridor was another set of golden oak double doors,
guarded by a young alector in the black and silver. He nodded to Dainyl’s
escort, then said, as he opened the right-hand door, “Welcome, Submarshal. The
High Alector is expecting you.”

Dainyl’s escort
stepped back, and he walked through the door alone, Talent-senses alert. The
foyer beyond was empty, and Dainyl faced archways to the left and right.

“To the right,”
called a voice.

Dainyl stepped
through the archway, and followed another corridor to the first open doorway on
the left. Beyond was a study, the inner wall lined with shelves of books. The
outer wall held shelves as well, but between them were floor-to-ceiling
windows, and in the center of the outer wall was a set of open double doors.

Alcyna and Brekylt
rose from the pair of armchairs set before the table desk.

Brekylt was but a
shade shorter than Dainyl, and slender. His wide expressive mouth offered a
smile, and he Talent-projected warmth and friendliness. “Submarshal Dainyl, I’ve
heard only good things about you. It’s good to see you here in Alustre.”

Behind that
projection, well shielded, but not from Dainyl, was a sense of coolness and
calculation. Dainyl smiled in response, inclining his head. “I’m pleased to
have the chance to visit Alustre again, and to see you. I’m also grateful for
the dinner invitation.”

“I’m the one who is
pleased,” replied the High Alector. “It has been some time since the submarshal
of the west has dined with us. Tyanylt never did, you know. Neither didWeylt.”

“I hadn’t known,”
said Dainyl with a soft laugh, “but I’m more than happy to break that
precedent.”

“So are we.” Brekylt
smiled again. “There are only the three of us. I had thought it would be more
pleasant—and more intimate—to enjoy the balcony overlooking the conservatory
gardens.”

“Brekylt has plants
from all over Acorus in the garden—only the most beautiful and the most
fragrant, of course,” added Alcyna.

“The gardens must be
very special, then,” Dainyl replied.

“Nothing like them
anywhere on Corus, not even in Lyterna.” Brekylt turned and walked through the
open doors of the study and out onto a balcony within the glass-roofed
conservatory and overlooking the gardens below. The light of the almost-setting
sun turned the white-granite walls and pillars orangish red, and the scent of
flowers filled the warm moist air.

Dainyl followed
Alcyna, stopping well short of the stone half wall at the edge of the balcony.
To his right, five yards away, was a table, set with three places, in full
formality. The silver gleamed, as did the crystal goblets. Dainyl concentrated
on Brekylt. “It’s pleasant here.”

“One of the great
privileges of being the High Alector of the East.” Brekylt lifted an amber
long-necked bottle and filled three of the four wine glasses set on a side
table. The vintage was so clear that the glass would have appeared empty,
except for the slight silver sheen to the wine. “You must try the Argentium
Grande.” He gestured for Dainyl and Alcyna each to take a glass.

Dainyl inclined his
head to Alcyna.

“Thank you, Dainyl.
You are so aware of the proprieties.” She took the middle glass.

Dainyl took the
leftmost one. He lifted it, then inhaled, using the gesture and his Talent
sense to check the wine, but he sensed nothing untoward. “It has a wonderful
aroma:”

“It’s from Elcadya,”
replied Brekylt, holding his glass. “Every bit as good as anything out of the
Vyan Hills, and better at times.” He sipped the wine.

“Elcadya?”

“‘I’he vineyard
region some fifty vingts to the north of Flyr.” Brekylt set down his wine on
the side table and picked up the empty glass, tapping the rim with his forefinger.
A clear tone filled the balcony. “The crystal goblets come from just north of
Vysta ...”

Dainyl laughed and
added, “And they’re every bit as good as those from Krost, if not better at
times.”

Alcyna laughed as
well. “I think he understands your point, Brekylt.”

“I’m certain he does.”
The High Alector of the East set down the empty goblet and lifted his wine, not
drinking any. “But does he know why matters have turned as they have?”

“No ... I don’t,”
Dainyl admitted. “I have the feeling I’m about to learn, though.” He took a sip
of the Argentium—as good as Brekylt had suggested. “You’re right about the
wine.”

“He’s right about
many things.” Alcyna’s tone was dry.

“I imagine so. One
doesn’t become and remain the Highest of the East without great knowledge.”

Brekylt moved to the
balcony wall, where he gestured at the gardens below.

“They’re beautiful,”
Dainyl said.

“They are indeed.
Like Acorus itself, they require much care, much planning, and careful
pruning—but not too much. Do you see the jaelithum there, with the silver
blossoms?”

“It’s especially
pleasing.”

“It is. It wasn’t
supposed to be there. The original jaelithum was planted in the far corner. No
matter what the gardeners did, it failed to thrive. It finally died. The one
there planted itself, and I told them to let it grow. Everyone has remarked on
its beauty and fragrance.”

“Some plants are
suited for some locales, and some are not,” Dainyl observed, as he knew he had
been led to conclude.

“Exactly. All worlds
are like that, and Acorus is no exception. There are sand and lime near Vysta
and the sloping hills with right exposure to sun in Elcadya.”

“But those exist in
Krost and the Vyan Hills as well,” pointed out Dainyl.

“They do indeed, but
does either Duarch remark upon the vintages of Elcadya or the crystal of Vysta?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”
Dainyl laughed ruefully. “I’ve not dined at their tables. You would know better
than I.”

“They do not,”
murmured Alcyna, who had moved to me balcony wall, at Dainyl’s right, so that
he stood between the two, “especially not Khelaryt.”

“Life is like the
gardens here,” Brekylt said genially. “Some plants and trees you can place
anywhere, and others will grow only in certain places. One cannot decree that
the jaelithum must only grow in the corner. One must work with what is, not
insist that it all follow a plan laid down years before. After all, to build
lifeforce, we must be gardeners as well as administrators.”

“And, according to
the Views of the Highest,” Dainyl couldn’t resist adding, “we must not see choices
where there are none.”

“Exactly.” Brekylt
swallowed the last of his wine. “Enough of gardens and lifeforce. We should eat
before what we have planned spoils, and you must tell us all about our
acquaintances ... and how they fare ...”

Dainyl understood
that message as well. No matter what he tried, Brekylt and Alcyna weren’t about
to tell him more man they already had. For all their overt courtesy, they both
had made what they had conveyed to Dainyl very clear, so obvious that it could
not have been missed. Whether that meant that they felt he was naive about
matters, not that bright, or whether it was all designed to mislead him—he didn’t
know. Not yet.

He might as well
enjoy the dinner... and listen not just to what was said, but how it was said.

A light rain fell
outside the mess, turning the predawn grayness of Quinti into a misty gloom.
Inside, Mykel sat at a table along the wall, slowly eating his egg toast.

Fabrytal sat across
from him, finishing his own breakfast. “Chyndylt’s a good senior squad leader.
After another deployment, he might make a good undercaptain.”

“I’d thought he
might,” replied Mykel, refraining from pointing out that he’d made the
observation to Fabrytal several weeks earlier. “But it’s better not to say
anything to him at all. When you think he’s ready, make the recommendation to
me. That way, if the colonel doesn’t want to accept it—or wants to delay it
because there aren’t any officer slots available—Chyndylt doesn’t get angry or
resentful. There’s no sense in creating a problem when you don’t have to.”

“I can see that, sir.”
Fabrytal paused. “What’s it like in Dramur? Majer Dohark must have liked it to
accept the post there.”

“It’s like every
place else, Fabrytal. It has good points and bad. Majer Dohark said he was
tired of the cold, and liked the idea of being in charge of a post.”

“How many companies?”

‘Two—but he has
orders to expand to a full battalion. The two companies weren’t enough to cover
much more than Dramuria and the guano mine. That was one reason why the growers
on the west side of the island thought they could do what they wanted....”
Mykel laughed. “I can fill you in on that on the ship to Southgate. I imagine
you have a few things to do right now.”

“I do need to check
with Chyndylt before muster. By your leave, sir.”

Mykel nodded, and
after the undercaptain had left, took another bite of egg toast that was cooler
than he liked and firm, just short of being rubbery.

“So... they’ve
decided that you have a talent for butchery, Mykel.”

Mykel looked up to
see Hersiod sitting down at the end of the adjoining table. While Mykel hadn’t
avoided the older majer over the past weeks, he hadn’t gone out of his way to
seek him out, either. “Butchery? That’s not a good idea, as you’ve pointed out.”

“I understand you do
it so well, though. How many nearly defenseless companies did you destroy in
Dramur? Something like ten? Was that it?” Hersiod’s voice was light.

Mykel could sense the
other’s anger, not from the tone of voice, but rather as though it were a
color, or a smell. It wasn’t either, but related in some fashion to his growing
ability to see people’s auras. “Well...” He drew out the word, trying to reply
with a bantering tone himself. “They had very new rifles and a lot of
ammunition, and they were trying to kill us. They kept attacking, and they
wanted a fight. So I figured I’d oblige them, but I didn’t see much point in
losing men I didn’t have to.” He shrugged. “You’re headed to Iron Stem, I
heard. Did the colonel tell you how long you’ll be there?” Mykel took a swallow
of the slightly watered hot cider, concentrating on Hersiod.

“It might be better
if you concentrated on your own battalion, Mykel. What we’re doing won’t help
you.” Hersiod’s smile was anything but warm. “But then, you’re being sent to do
what you do so well. Butchering ... I beg your pardon ... disciplining those
who have not seen the error of their ways.”

Mykel smiled, in
return. “Discipline is important. You’ve often made that point.” Mykel could
sense a certain hardness ... an intransigence within Hersiod ... something,
like the anger concealed by Hersiod, that carried a color Mykel could sense
with his growing talent, could almost see—the faintest pinkish purple.

At the same time, the
older majer’s words and attitude reminded Mykel of Majer Vaclyn just before
Vaclyn had snapped and attacked Mykel. Did being in command of a battalion do
that to some men after a time? Or were they always that way?

“I’m so glad my words
have made an impact upon you, Mykel.” Hersiod lifted his mug, as if in a toast,
and sipped the steaming cider.

Mykel lifted his mug,
empty as it was, in response. “I can’t imagine them not making an impact,
coming as they do from a senior majer.” His words, even and polite, were true
enough, in more than one way. He knew he should just have nodded and agreed,
but he’d always had trouble in making himself agree to what he perceived as
outright falsehoods and blatant inaccuracies, even when agreement would have
made his own way far smoother.