Cadmians Choice (32 page)

Mykel blotted away
the dampness from his forehead, then shifted his weight in the saddle as the
roan carried him southward on the high road. Beside him rode Rhystan, since
Sixteenth Company was riding van for the rest of the morning. According to the
last vingt-post, Hyalt was another five vingts ahead. Mykel’s eyes took in the
terrain on both sides of the road, land covered with grass, thick and with the
teal shade of new growth. To his left, grasslands stretched to the eastern
horizon. To his right, the grasslands rose slowly to a hillcrest less than half
a vingt away, then dropped, only to rise into a slightly higher rolling hill
farther west. Perhaps three vingts west of the road, the grasslands ended,
replaced with wooded hills that, in turn, were replaced by the low mountains
that formed the eastern edge of the Coast Range. From what Mykel could see, the
trees were low evergreens, mixed pines and junipers.

In the few road cuts,
Mykel had noted that the soil was thin with reddish sand beneath. That
explained why he and Third Battalion had seen only scattered flocks of cattle
on the grasslands. Farming or heavier grazing would have ruined the grassy
plains.

He turned and looked
back over his shoulder at the riders—and the supply wagons that followed the
column. Over the three weeks it had taken to ride from Southgate—with rest
stops for men and mounts—Mykel had worked in as much training as possible. The
two new companies now looked like Cadmians when they rode.

At the sound of
fast-moving hoofs on the road, Mykel turned. He kept riding, waiting as one of
the scouts rode swiftly toward the battalion.

“Sir? Wagons ahead!
Carrying something pretty heavy.”

Ahead in the
distance, Mykel saw three heavy wagons, each drawn by six dray horses, and all
were heading northward. He could insist that the wagons give way, but heavy as
they were, and with the sandy soil beyond the shoulders of the road, there was
a good chance that they might get mired or break a wheel. He also didn’t like
riding past them in single file or narrow formation.

Mykel turned in the
saddle, looking at Toralt, the duty messenger. “Pass the word. At my command,
we’ll ride, fast trot, to the hillock on the right up ahead. Form up in battle
formation facing the road. Same company order as now.”

“Ride to the hillock,
fast trot, form up in battle formation, same company order. Yes, sir.” Toralt
turned his mount out of formation and headed toward the rear.

“More practice, sir?”
asked Rhystan.

“Mostly. I doubt that
irregulars would use wagons—or even know we were on the way—but you never know
when you’re first arriving somewhere.”

Less than a tenth of
a glass later, Toralt rode back and reported. “Sir! All the officers stand
ready.”

“Battalion! Forward!”

“Sixteenth Company
... forward!”

“Thirteenth Company
...”

Before long, the
entire force was formed into a line of battle on the hillock on the west side
of the high road.

“Rifles ready!”

The command echoed
across the battalion.

The wagons were close
enough that Mykel knew they posed no threat, but he wanted the younger Cadmians
in particular to get the feel of waiting ... and waiting ... with rifles ready.
He’d seen too many inexperienced troopers fire too soon because they were
impatient.

Slowly, the wagons
crept northward on the high road, nearing the battalion. Each wagon carried a
driver and a guard with a rifle up front, with four mounted guards in front and
two riding behind. While the wagons didn’t creak or sag, the measured pace of
the team and the faint crunching of sandy soil that had drifted across the enter-nastone
in places and was being flattened by the heavy iron tires of the wagons were
more than enough to tell Mykel that they carried ingots of some sort. The sign
on the black-painted side of each wagon was simple: MINTZ AND SONS, TEAMSTERS.

Mykel could sense the
unease on the part of the teamsters and even the armed guards, who kept looking
back at the Cadmians long after the wagons had passed the formation on the rise
overlooking the high road.

Once Third Battalion
was back on the road, Rhystan looked at Mykel. “They didn’t do badly.”

“No. We’ll see how
they do against irregulars—if there are any.”

The captain gestured
out at the grasslands to the east. “Doesn’t look like there’s much here. How do
they live?”

“There’s some dryland
nut trees to the south, and there’s a tin mine to the southwest, and a copper
mine to the west. They’ve got cattle here as well. Some of them are sent north
and butchered in Tempre or shipped downriver to Faitel and Elcien.” He grinned.
“That’s what the books and everyone I talked to told me, anyway. They’ve got
some clay too, and there’s a china works. Hyalt’s smaller than Dramuria, they
say.”

“Why would they have
irregulars out here, then?”

“There’s always
someone who’s not happy with the way things are. Hyalt’s far enough away from
places that people think matter that no one pays much attention. If someone
starts yelling about the Duarches or the Cadmians in Faitel, how long is it
before they get carted away?”

“A glass, if they’re
lucky,” replied Rhystan.

“No one paid any
attention here, not until it was too late.”

“You think that’s the
whole story?”

Mykel laughed. “It
never is. We found that out in Dramur. I just hope what we don’t know isn’t as
bad as it was there.”

‘That makes two of
us, Majer.”

For all his
explanations to Rhystan, and even with his concerns, Mykel still felt uneasy.

Dainyl stood at the
window of his study, looking out into the early afternoon. The sun poured down
from a cloudless silver-green sky, and the faintest breeze of early summer
wafted through the partly open window. For the last month, nothing untoward had
occurred. No pteridons or skylances were missing. No Myrmidon casualties or
accidents. No wild Talents had been reported. Iron Stem remained calm, and the
Fourth Cad-mian Battalion had managed to contain the handful of icewolves that
had appeared, although local Iron Valley herders had complained about a handful
of dead sheep and cattle. The Third Cadmian Battalion was close to arriving in
Hyalt. Neither Shastylt nor Zelyert had tasked him with any new or thankless
tasks. Matters were calm. As Submarshal of Myrmidons, Dainyl should have been
pleased.

He was not.

There were far too
many aspects of events that hinted at troubles to come, yet about which Dainyl
could do nothing—not without incurring the wrath and displeasure of the
marshal, the High Alector of Justice, and the Duarch of Elcien—because there
was almost nothing in the way of hard proof about any of his suspicions. The
hints were there.

Some were in the
small stack of reports on the corner of his desk. There was the report that
Seventh Myrmidon Company had moved to its new compound in Dulka, and another
from Seventh Company reporting that Undercaptain Sledaryk had been transferred
to Lysia when Undercaptain Hasya had requested a stipend after fifty years of
service. Alcyna had promoted Undercaptain Veluara to captain and transferred
her to take command of Seventh Company, rather than promoting Undercaptain
Klynd to replace the late Majer Faerylt.

Others were scattered
bits of information, like Majer Noryan’s past, the “replaced” report about the
pteridons lost to the ancients, the resource diversions by the eastern
engineers, and the mysterious deaths associated with its discovery.

The shadow of a
pteridon crossed the outer courtyard—an incoming dispatch flight, not that
there would be anything but routine messages, if recent dispatches were any
indication.

Dainyl was surprised,
less than a quarter of a glass later, when the duty messenger rapped on his
study door. “A dispatch for you, Submarshal.”

“Thank you.” Dainyl
stood and took the envelope.

After the messenger
departed, he checked it. The Talent-seal was unbroken, and when he opened the
envelope, he found that the message inside was brief.

Submarshal Dainyl—At
your convenience, since you were deputed to handle the matter, I would like to
request your presence in Lyterna to discuss additional developments regarding
the ice-wolves and similar predators. These may have a significant impact on
Cadmian and Myrmidon operations.

The signature was
that of Asulet, underneath the title of Alector of Lifeforce.

Dainyl made his way
to Shastylt’s study, since the marshal was in, and his presence was never
something Dainyl could count upon.

The marshal did not
rise from behind his desk. “You have that worried look, Dainyl. I should say
that you look more worried than usual, since you never look unworried anymore.”

“Isn’t that my task,
sir, to worry about the routine matters so that you can concentrate upon the
others?” Dainyl extended the envelope. “This just arrived with the dispatches.”

Shastylt took it,
read it quickly, and handed it back. “Is there anything happening now that
Dhenyr can’t handle?”

“No, sir. Everything
else is quiet. For now.”

“You worry too much,
Dainyl.” Shastylt chuckled. “Wait to worry until we actually have problems we
can address. Just take the duty coach and use the Table this afternoon. Asulet
will be there. He never goes anywhere.”

Behind the marshal’s
banter, deep behind, Dainyl could sense more than a little worry. “Does he ever
leave Lyterna?”

“He hasn’t in years,
or if he has, no one knows about it. There are sections of Lyterna that no one
knows about but him.” There was a brief pause. “Find out what he has to say and
then let me know. If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be here in the
morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Dainyl
nodded and departed.

Less than half a
glass later, he walked down the subterranean corridor beneath the Hall of
Justice toward the Table chamber. Outside of a single assistant, he saw no one
in the hidden warrens. Nor did he sense anyone else.

The Table chamber was
also empty, and he stepped up onto the Table, his shields ready for anything—he
hoped—as he concentrated and dropped through the Table and...

... into the chill
purple darkness. He immediately concentrated on finding the pink locator wedge
that was Lyterna and Talent-linking to it. As he felt the distant Table moving
toward him, he continued to be alert for any signs of trouble—and for
amber-green flashes in the deeper blackness beyond the translation tube.

He thought he sensed
one such flash before the silvered-pink barrier at Lyterna shattered into its
insubstantial and vanishing Talent-shards.

Standing on the dark
Table, he strengthened his shields. He had not worn his flying jacket, not with
the warmth of the day in Elcien, and the frost boiled off the shimmersilk of
his uniform tunic as he stepped off the Table in Elcien,Myenfel was the one who
waited for Dainyl. “I trust you had no difficulties, Submarshal.”

“None at all, thank
you. I appreciate your concern.”

Myenfel only nodded
in response, then gestured. A gray-haired and frail-looking alector appeared. “Eshart
will take you to Asulet. It’s likely to be quicker that way.”

“Thank you.”

Myenfel offered a
brief smile, then nodded to the gray-haired alector.

Eshart said not a
word, but immediately headed out of the Table chamber and down the long
light-torch-lit corridor, then up a narrow staircase, and along the main
gallery east of the so-called Council Hall, and past the grand pteridon mural
of a scene that never was. It was a scene Dainyl also hoped he never would
see—and hadn’t thought at all possible until the events of the past season.

Another series of
twists and turns and a narrow hallway—almost a tunnel—brought Dainyl out in a
wider corridor he recognized, since, to his left, he could see the niches that
held the ancient examples of Acorus—and the spare pteridons—preserved in time
against a future need. Eshart turned right and then stopped at the first
door—open.

“Come in, Dainyl.”
Asulet’s voice issued from within the chamber. “Please close the door.”

Dainyl stepped into
the room, closing the door, and found himself in a study paneled in wood of a
deep golden shade—or was it oak that had aged centuries? He took a moment to
survey the chamber, since he’d never been in Asulet’s study before. Bookshelves
comprised one entire wall, and every space was full. A line of wooden cases was
stacked against the back wall, under a painting of Dereka—or a Dereka that was
meant to have been, because the image held twin green towers. The wide table
desk was also of ancient oak, as were the two wooden armchairs before it, and
the upholstered chair behind it. As with all chambers within the underground
structure, there were the light-torches, the air ducts and returns—and no
windows.

Asulet stood at the
corner of the desk. “Are you finished cataloguing all that I have here, Dainyl?”

“I doubt that I ever
could, sir. Even if I could, I wouldn’t understand a fraction of it.”

“At least you know
that. Sit down.”

Dainyl waited until
Asulet eased his gaunt frame into the chair behind the desk before taking a
seat.

“You arrived quickly,
as usual.”

“Matters are quiet. I
doubt that they will remain so, but Shastylt says that I worry too much.”

“As if he does not.”
Asulet leaned forward. “There are two matters I would like to discuss with you,
Dainyl. The first one deals with the predators. The icewolves feed on
lifeforce, as you know. What you may not know is that there was another
lifeforce predator, far more deadly, that also feeds on lifeforce. Its rough
form is that of an indigen. Although it appears slightly smaller, it is quite
strong, and its skin is rock-hard and tannish. It may sparkle in the light at
times—”