Cadmians Choice (66 page)

“Finally, you are to
make sure that the lower level of the compound remains guarded and off-limits
to everyone. Everyone. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The submarshal nodded
brusquely. “That is all. I hope to see you and your Cadmians in Hyalt before
too long.” Without another word, the Myrmidon turned and moved quickly toward
the last pteridon. The other Myrmidons had already mounted.

Mykel watched as the
pteridons rose into the silver-green sky, one after the other, seemingly on the
ground one moment, and then in the air the next, their long blue wings spread.
With each beat of the wings, they rose upward, heading south.

Mykel turned and
walked back toward the compound, thinking. Why had the submarshal left him in
such a seemingly impossible situation? Why wasn’t someone being dispatched
immediately from Elcien or Ludar to take over running the city and the area? It
was as if he wanted Mykel dead, but didn’t want to act himself.

Dead? Rachyla had
told him that the alectors would seek to kill all those who carried the dagger
of the ancients and who learned what it represented. In point of fact,
everything that Rachyla had told him about the alectors—angrily, as he
recalled—was seemingly being revealed as truth. He wished he’d had the sense to
listen more, and to draw her out. Abruptly, he smiled. There was no reason he
couldn’t visit her now, or at least try. She might be able to tell him more,
and he could use all the information she might have.

He headed back
through the compound gates, nodding to the two guards, and into the inner
courtyard, seeking Fabrytal. He found the undercaptain outside the west wing of
the stables, talking with his senior squad leader Chyndylt.

“Majer, sir,” offered
Chyndylt. “The undercaptain and I were about finished ...”

“You can stay.” Mykel
grinned. “I need a little recon and local information—in order to get some
information.”

“Yes, sir?” Fabrytal
looked puzzled.

“There is a factor
here in Tempre who has recently arrived from Southgate. His chatelaine has some
information we may need very badly, based on what the submarshal informed me
just before he left.” Mykel smiled faintly. “I need to know where the villa of
the factor Amaryk is in Tempre, and later, or tomorrow, I’ll need an escort of
a full squad to ride there.”

Chyndylt repressed a
smile.

Mykel looked at the
senior squad leader. “She turned out to be right about a number of things,
concerning the submarshal. I’d prefer to see if she knows more. It might save
us some troopers in the next week.” He looked back at Fabrytal. “We’re in
charge until the alectors return— the proper alectors, that is, and I have to
decide who is the proper alector.”

Fabrytal swallowed.
Chyndylt’s incipient smile vanished.

“You can see why any
information might be useful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“While you’re finding
that out, I’ll be down at the regional alector’s headquarters. I think a little
investigation into who was running the region besides the regional alector
might prove useful.” At the very least, they might prove useful in justifying
whatever actions may be necessary.

“Yes, sir.”

With a smile and a
nod, Mykel left the two and made his way to the stable, where he saddled the
roan, and then rode out, heading west along the boulevard toward the alector’s
complex.

As he neared the gray
granite building, a slight breeze picked up, out of the south, bringing the
scent of the flowers in the gardens on the south side of the boulevard. From
what he’d seen, Tempre was a pleasant city. So why had the regional alector
thrown in with the rebel alectors? Mykel had to shrug. It had to do with power.
Everything did, but how, he had no real idea. He just wanted to do his duty and
get out of the situation with the least damage possible.

If he left without a
successor regional alector, that would be dereliction of duty—and he didn’t
want even to think about what happened to commanding officers who were found
guilty of that. At the very least, he had to turn matters over to an alector
with some semblance of authority, and to do that he needed to know more. He
also knew that his time was getting short, because once others knew that the
Myrmidons had left, it was likely that someone would appear to claim power.

Seventeenth Company
had the duty dealing with the empty building, and Mykel rode around the east
side until he located Loryalt, still mounted and discussing something with his
fourth squad leader.

The undercaptain
immediately turned his mount and waited for Mykel.

“Yes, sir? Any word?
We saw the Myrmidons leave.”

“We’re in charge
until the proper authorities return. I’m going inside and conduct an inspection
of sorts up in the RA’s study. That’s so I have some idea who the proper authority
might be. I don’t know how long that’s likely to take.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If anyone who looks
like an alector appears, send someone for me immediately. I don’t think that
will happen soon, but you never know. When you’re relieved, pass that on to
Undercaptain Matorak as well.” Mykel paused. “How are things going?”

“Quiet, sir. It’s
like everyone is avoiding the place.”

“Let’s hope it stays
that way for a bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

After leaving
Loryalt, Mykel rode farther around the building, finding a brass-ringed
hitching post in the shade near the small rear entry. There he dismounted and
tied the roan, before making his way up the stone steps into the building,
conscious that the fourth squad was watching him. He carried a blank order book
and a marker for the notes he hoped to take.

Once inside, he had
to walk to the front of the building, taking the marble-floored corridor back
around to the wide staircase—also of green marble—that led to the second level.

The study of the
regional alector was set on the southwest corner, as part of a suite that
extended from double doors, each with an etched glass panel set in the golden
oak. The scene was that of the twin towers flanking the river piers.
Immediately behind those doors was a foyer, set with chairs, and a single table
desk positioned at an angle such that whoever sat behind it could view both the
double doors and the single door to the regional alector’s private study.

There was only a
single file box in the outer foyer, placed against the paneled wall behind the
desk. Mykel opened it, to find it largely emptied. What remained were
individual sheets of paper, with seemingly cryptic notes. He scanned them, but
after leafing through them, decided that they all referred to various
appointments and engagements in some fashion—but there were no names at all. At
the back of those notes, he did find one folded paper with a list of names.

Fahylt Regional
Alector Adaral Deputy RA Shesala Appointment Clerk

There were close to
twenty names with titles on the list. Mykel folded the paper and slipped it
into his tunic. From the way it had been folded, he suspected that some of the
names were possibly outdated, but it was a start.

He paused outside the
closed inner door. There had been no one inside when he had first searched the
building. Still...

He could hear
nothing, sense nothing. He opened the door, but no one was in the inner study,
an oblong chamber a good ten yards in depth and fifteen in length. The longer
side was on the south, with wide floor to ceiling windows, each two yards in
width, separated from the next by granite edged in oak. Because the building
had been built slightly up the hillside, the windows afforded a sweeping view
of Tempre. The west windows offered an equally sweeping vista of the towers and
the pier, although the base of the northern tower was blocked by part of the
hill.

The inner norm wall
was composed of bookshelves rising from waist height, with built-in file cases
below, the kind where the front dropped down and the case could be slid partway
out. Only a relative handful of books rested on the shelves, spaced between
small sculptures of various sizes. The alector’s desk was angled across the
corner of the room facing outward. Behind it was a comfortable-looking wooden
armchair. On the floor was a thick dark green carpet, and in the center was
woven in gold the twin scepters of the Duarchy.

Toward the east end
of the chamber was a circular dark wooden conference table, around which were
set five wooden armchairs. All the furniture was large, sized for alectors,
Mykel noted.

Mykel set the order
book on a vacant space on a shelf and opened the top file case on the west end
and began to leaf through the sheaves of papers. The first sheaf dealt with
something about logging on the south side of the River Vedra somewhere to the
west of Tempre. The second sheaf had also to do with logging. Everything in the
first case was related to logging and timber. So was the second case. The third
case dealt wim maintaining swamps and bogs, and cited instances where
individuals had been fined—or in one case, executed—for attempting to drain
swamps. The fourth held papers about alternation of field crops ...

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.