Cadmians Choice (26 page)

“Is there any other
information I should know ... or that you would care to pass on, sir?” Dainyl
finally asked.

“Not at the moment,
Submarshal. I will escort you back to the Table.” Asulet smiled. “It will save
both of us time.”

“I’m sure it will.”
Dainyl offered a sheepish grin. “But I wasn’t about to trust Choranyt.”

“A wise decision.”

Dainyl lost track of
the passages and concealed doors that Asulet took before they reached the main
corridor outside the Table chamber.

There, the elder
alector opened the door, releasing the Talent-locks, and led Dainyl inside.
Dainyl strengthened his shield.

“Excellent,” murmured
Asulet.

Choranyt looked at
the two. His face paled.

“Have a good trip,
Submarshal.” Asulet’s tone was formal.

Dainyl stepped onto
the Table, focusing on the darkness beneath.

He dropped swiftly
into the chill blackness, immediately seeking the brilliant white locator that
was Elcien, and extending a Talent-probe.

No purple arms
appeared, but for a moment, somewhere “behind” him, he sensed a momentary black
and purple flash.

Then he was smashing
through the silvered white barrier at Elcien.

He stood alone in the
Table chamber, and only the briefest hint of frost-fog lifted off his flying
jacket. As he stepped off the Table, his Talent indicated that no one else was
around.

Still he made his way
to the private study of the High Alector immediately, recalling Asulet’s slight
emphasis on the High Alector’s name, but the study was empty. When he turned to
leave, one of the younger assistants stood in the anteroom doorway.

“I was looking for
the Highest.”

“He left earlier,
Submarshal. He will be in Soupat until early this afternoon.”

“Soupat?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t
say why.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Dainyl
left the Hall of Justice and finally managed to hail a hacker to take him to
Myrmidon headquarters.

He had barely turned
down the corridor to his own study when Undercaptain Yuasylt—the duty officer—
called to him.

“Submarshal, sir. The
marshal was looking for you.”

“Thank you.” Dainyl
walked past his own study to the marshal’s. “I just got back.”

Shastylt nodded,
saying nothing. He did not rise.

Dainyl walked into
the study and closed the door. He remained standing.

“Well... did he have
anything useful to tell us?”

“The predator is one
that dates back to the time of the ancients. It feeds on lifeforce...” Dainyl
summarized the rest of what Asulet had told him, not that it took long, since
Asulet had been brief to the point of being cryptic.

Shastylt frowned.
Then he pulled at his chin. “Asulet was telling the truth?”

“Yes, sir. He was
worried, and he didn’t want the word spread. He said Brekylt and Alcyna would
find out, sooner or later.”

“Did he tell you why
this was happening now? Does he have any ideas?”

“He might have ideas,
but he declined to share them. Politely, but firmly.”

“The ancients are
behind this. Do you think that Brekylt has worked out some sort of alliance
with them?”

Dainyl didn’t know
what to say. The idea was preposterous, given his experiences with them. But he
certainly couldn’t share that knowledge with the marshal. After a moment, he
replied. “Brekylt would seek an alliance with anyone or anything that furthered
his ambitions. From the reports I’ve studied, and what little I’ve seen, and
from what Asulet has told me, the ancients see us all as enemies. Besides, how
would they even communicate?” Dainyl felt much safer phrasing the last concept
as a question, rather than stating it as a fact.

“There is that... but
those two are inventive.”

“I would agree with
that, but Alcyna directed her Myrmidons to attack them, and the rankers were
telling the truth about the attacks. I can’t see the ancients allowing that.”

Shastylt pursed his
narrow lips before replying. “No. They would not.” After a time, he focused his
eyes directly on Dainyl. “What do you think about it?”

“I think the ancients
are planning something. We have not seen them in hundreds of years, not really,
and now, within two seasons, they’ve destroyed six pteridons, and now there’s a
lifeforce predator that no one’s seen in a thousand years. That’s not
coincidence. It also suggests that they know the time for the transfer of the
Master Scepter is near, or at least that more alectors will be coming to
Acorus.”

“More alectors have
already been translating here. They could have noticed that,” mused the
marshal. “I want you to watch for any other signs ... anywhere. Don’t report
them. Just tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dainyl returned to
his own study, closing the door. He needed time to think. First, somehow he
needed to get word about the giant ice-wolf predator to Zelyert in a way that
wasn’t obvious to Shastylt, and before long. He also wanted to think about what
the ancients had said about him not changing enough. Had he changed at all?
How? Was that good?

He couldn’t help but
recall the near-casual way that the small soaring creature had used her power
to hurl him back into the translation tube. Yet, if they had the kind of power
that he had seen and experienced, why hadn’t they just attacked? Or was it
because there still were so few of them? He wished he knew more—or how to find
out more without putting himself at the mercy of creatures who had shown
themselves to be powerful and dangerous.

His eyes drifted to
the window and the clear silver green sky beyond. Not even a sign of a storm,
but he knew that the times and the weather could change quickly.

The hired carriage
drove through the open gates of one of the villas in the center of Southgate,
carrying Mykel, Overcaptain Sturyk, and the overcaptain’s wife, a brunette a
good fifteen years younger than Sturyk, Mykel judged.

Mykel wore his better
uniform, clean and with everything polished, but without his sabre. He had been
persuaded to accompany the couple in a rented carriage, because Sturyk had
insisted, telling Mykel, “Arriving on horseback is just not acceptable, sir.”

Mykel hadn’t felt
like arguing about that. If his taking a carriage made Sturyk more comfortable
and resulted in better relations between the Cadmians and the factors and high
landers of Southgate, then that was a small price to pay.

“This is Seltyr
Elbaryk’s place,” offered the overcap-tain. “Every year the ball is in a
different villa. If I’m commander long enough, Sheranyne and I might get to see
them all.”

“Are all those who
own the villas seltyrs? I thought some were factors.”

“Oh ... that’s the
rank title. Some are factors. Some own lands. Several have ships, and some of
those probably smuggle goods.”

“The same title is
used in Dramur, but all of the seltyrs there are large landholders,” offered
Mykel.

“Most of the seltyrs
here have family or trade ties to Dramur. They’re a close-knit bunch.”

The carriage came to
a halt under a covered, but open portico.

Mykel stepped out of
the carriage, onto the mounting block. He would have held the door for
Sheranyne—the overcaptain’s wife—except that a footman in spotless light gray
already had opened the carriage door and held it.

“Welcome to Villa
Elbaryk.”

“Thank you.” Mykel
nodded and glanced westward, where the sky still held a faint shade of silver
from the earlier sunset. Only Asterta was visible in the early-evening sky, a
small green disc high in the eastern sky.

“The ballroom is
straight ahead through the main entry and then up the grand staircase to the
left.”

The three walked
abreast, Mykel to the left of Sheranyne, Sturyk to the right. Mounted on every
white granite pillar was a brass lamp polished to a fine luster, with light
radiating through glass panels showing neither smudges nor soot. The walkway
was covered with a thick black-carpeted runner, fringed with white and gold. The
spring evening was warm, with a hint of flowers, but also with a touch of
dustiness in the air.

The main entry was a
vaulted stone enclosure, windowless, that soared a good three stories, lit by
an enormous crystal chandalier. MyKel wondered it the oil tor each miniature
lamp was fed down through a tube in the heavy links of the twined brass chains
supporting the chandelier, or if each lamp had its own reservoir to be filled.

“Impressive, is it
not?” asked Sturyk.

“Rather,” murmured
Mykel. The villa was more like a palace, like something he would have imagined
for one of the Duarches.

Two couples walked up
the staircase ahead of them. The staircase circled up and around the side of
the entry, its carpeted steps each a good five yards wide. One of the women
half-turned to say something to the younger woman behind her. While her gown
was cut low enough to reveal that she was shapely and extremely well endowed,
it covered her shoulders and upper arms. The younger woman’s gown left her arms
and shoulders bare, although she wore a filmy silver shawl over them.

Mykel suspected that
either woman’s gown cost more than several years of his pay as a majer, and he
didn’t want to speculate about the worm of the jeweled choker worn by the older
woman. “The couple ahead... a seltyr and his wife?”

“Oh, no. That’s
Orefyt. He’s a cloth factor, one of the larger ones, but certainly not so
wealthy as a seltyr. Everyone does wear their best to the ball.”

“If they are not
seltyrs,” added Sheranyne, “their very best.”

At the top of the
grand staircase was another foyer, only larger than any officer’s mess Mykel
had ever seen, and on the far side was an archway hung in deep green velvet,
trimmed with silver. At one side stood a tall man in a formal gray shimmersilk
tunic who announced, “Ser Orefyt, Madame Orefyt, his daughter and son.”

Did formality in
Southgate require everything be linked to the man?

Mykel tried not to be
obvious as he squared his shoulders, but he felt as though he headed into a
skirmish— without weapons. As the three of them stepped through the archway,
the functionary in gray shimmersilk tunic bowed, then declaimed, his deep bass
audible above the strings of the quintet playing on a dais in the left-hand
corner of the chamber, “Majer Mykel, Overcaptain Sturyk, Madame Sturyk.”

Mykel could sense the
eyes upon him, even though he did not see anyone looking directly at them, and
the mass of so many auras and their lifeforce pressed at him.

The ballroom was a
good thirty-five yards across, with a domed ceiling that rose some ten yards
above the center of the chamber. The archways to the adjoining anterooms were
set off by double columns. The walls and the inside of the dome were
silver-white, the effect dimmed by the low light from the brass lamps set in
wall sconces and by the heavy dark green velvet hangings trimmed in silver. The
floor was comprised of alternating green and silver tiles in the shape of
diamonds. About fifty couples were dancing, each pair careful to remain clear
of others, moving not quite sedately to the music.

Mykel let himself be
guided by Sturyk toward a short line of four people. Both men wore tunics and
trousers of brilliant white shimmersilk, with white boots polished to a
reflective shine, unlike the others in the ballroom, who seemed to be wearing
all variety of color. The wives of the two men wore shimmersilk gowns of deep
green, and stood a half pace back, partly behind their husbands’ shoulders.

Sturyk halted before
the first man. “Seltyr Benjyr, my wife Sheranyne.” Then he half-turned. “My
superior, Majer Mykel, commander of the Third Battalion.”

Mykel bowed slightly.
“I am honored.” Before he finished his words, he noted that Sturyk and his wife
had nodded to the second couple and passed on, leaving him alone with the four
in the receiving line.

“No, Majer,” replied
the seltyr, a black-haired and almond-skinned man almost as tall as Mykel, “I
am the one honored. We seldom see high-ranking Cadmians here in SouthGate, and
it has been years since one has been able to attend our ball.” With a nod
slightly more than polite, he nodded to the next man. “Seltyr Elbaryk, this is
the distinguished, and, I might add, deadly, Majer Mykel.”

“We have heard much
of you, Majer. It is indeed a pleasure to see you in the flesh. May you enjoy
the ball and the hospitality of my home.”

“I am certain I will,
and I thank you.”

As Mykel stepped
away, he could not help but hear the words between the two.

“He is young for a
dagger ...”

“But far sharper...
best to let him go his way, for that will serve us best.”

Mykel was more man
certain he had been meant to hear the last words.

Sturyk and Sheranyne
stood, slightly apart from the others, their attire far less ostentatious than
that of those around them.

“I take it that
Seltyr Benjyr is the first among equals?” asked Mykel.

“They don’t even
pretend they’re equal,” replied Sturyk. “He is the Seltyr of Seltyrs. No one
questions him. You should be complimented. He spent more time with you than
many of the wealthier factors.”

“I hope that’s
favorable notice.” Mykel laughed. He wasn’t about to explain why he’d received
the attention.

“Better that than
being ignored. Now all you have to do is enjoy yourself. The younger women with
the bare shoulders and shawls are the ones who are not married.”

“They’d be very flattered
if you asked them to dance,” suggested Sheranyne. “But ask their parent or
escort, not them.”

Mykel thought he
understood why. “I’m not good at dancing.”

“It doesn’t matter,”
replied Sheranyne with a gentle laugh. “Some will like you for yourself, and
the others will use you to make their suitors jealous. The parents of every
eligible girl you ask to dance will be grateful as well.”