Cadmians Choice (67 page)

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.

Midaftemoon 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 guards 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 man 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
Vhanyn

“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 tried 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 her 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.”

The fierceness in her
eyes softened—but only for a moment. “Then you know what you must do.”

Mykel was afraid he
did.

She rose from the
armchair. “I do not think I can tell you much you do not already know, Majer.”

“You have told me
much.” He stood, reluctant to depart, yet knowing her words were true.

“I have only
confirmed what you feared.”

“You are a dangerous
woman, Rachyla.”

“Herisha’s nephew
does not think so.”