Soarers Choice (46 page)

Rhystan,
Culeyt, Hamylt, and Fabrytal were all there and eating when he stepped through
the archway, offering a cheerful, “Good morning.”

“Good
morning, sir.”

Since
they had filled one table, and looked to be finishing, Mykel settled himself at
the smaller adjoining table.

An
orderly hurried up with two beakers, one of ale and one of warm cider, setting
them before Mykel. “Here you are, sir. Breakfast will be right here.”

After
the ranker had scurried off, Mykel said dryly, “Amazing how quick they are when
they realize you’re going to be around for a while.” Even as he said it, he
knew it was unfair. “They’ve been good all along.”

“They
should be,” suggested Fabrytal.

“None
of you have had any more trouble with the dusters, have you?”

“No,
sir,” replied Culeyt. “We’ve been sending occasional patrols at night up the
road a ways, and word must have gone out.”

“The
men have been good about not going out alone,” added Hamylt. “That’s helped.”

“If
you’ll excuse me, sir?” asked Fabrytal. “We’ve got an early patrol.”

Mykel
nodded.

In
what seemed like moments, the mess was empty, except for Mykel and Rhystan, who
moved to the seat across the table from Mykel.

“You
do look better,” Rhystan said quietly.

“You
say that with surprise,” Mykel replied with a laugh.

“I
would suggest you wait a few days before you undertake more strenuous efforts.”

“I’ll
take your advice on that.” While Mykel had thought about accompanying one of
the companies on patrol, he had already decided against it — for Quinti, at
least. “I had thought to take a ride through Iron
Ste.
itself. Just Iron Stem,” he added quickly, before Rhystan frowned. “I’ll need
to ride some each day.”

“With
escorts, I trust?”

“One
or two should be sufficient in town.”

Rhystan
nodded. “That might be for the best.”

“Trouble?”

“Not
yet. But word about you is spreading, and if you ride out... it can’t hurt.”

“What
sort of word?” Mykel tried to keep his voice even.

“Oh,
the usual, whenever you’re around.” There was a slight
e.g.
to Rhystan’s words.

“Rhystan
... you know who I am. I’m a junior majer who got lucky a few times and is
trying to learn how to be a better commander without inflicting unnecessary
casualties on his men and officers.”

“That’s
one reason why you’re effective.” The
e.g.
had
vanished from the captain’s speech. He laughed softly. “The only illusion you
have is that you’re just another officer.”

Mykel
wasn’t going to get into that. He stopped as the ranker returned with a
platter.

“Here
you are, sir.”

“Thank
you.” Somehow, it reassured Mykel that the
eg.
toast
was slightly overdone. He took several bites before he spoke again. “What about
the Reillies?”

“The
big meeting is tomorrow. Then, there will be another feast and celebration.”

“And
then we’ll start to have trouble?”

“They
could decide to wait.”

“You
don’t think they will.”

“If
they know you’re riding around, it might slow them down.”

Mykel
didn’t even pretend to understand that. He was a junior battalion commander
who’d already made too many mistakes. Yes, he had Talent, just enough to keep
getting himself in trouble. Why would his presence slow any Reillie or Squawt
down? “Sympathizers or spies in town?”

“Relatives,
most likely.”

“You’re
not patrolling today, right?”

“Tomorrow.
You want to ride out after muster?”

“I’d
thought so.”

“I’ll
have your mount saddled and two rankers standing by.” Rhystan rose from the
table.

“Thank
you. I’d appreciate that.”

Mykel
finished his breakfast, then had to struggle into his riding jacket, fastening
it over his splinted hand, right arm, and shoulder. He took his time making his
way to the stable. If there were any dispatches, they wouldn’t come in until
later.

Scoryt
and Gamail stood in the courtyard with their mounts and Mykel’s roan. “Morning,
sir.”

“Good
morning.” Mykel took the reins, but managed to mount one-armed, and not too
awkwardly. The effort sent a spurt of pain through his injured arm and
shoulder, but it subsided once he was in the saddle.

He
eased the roan forward and then out through the gates, such as they were,
before turning south on the high road, heading toward the center of Iron Stem,
with the green tower behind him. The wind was icy, coming out of the north.
With each gust came miniature snowflakes, carried with enough force that Mykel
could feel each one that struck the unprotected section of the back of his
neck.

The
windows of the small school were shuttered, but a thin line of gray smoke
angled from the single chimney. Intermittent tiny drifts of snow had piled
against the low walls of the park south of the school. The narrow windows of
the dwellings beyond were mostly shuttered, but Mykel did not see any smoke
from their chimneys.

Only
a few women and small children were about on the streets around the dingier
buildings nearer to the ironworks. A single small boy looked at Mykel, his eyes
widening as he looked at the loose sleeve of the riding jacket that should have
held a healthy arm.

The
one benefit of the chill north wind was that the air, cold as it was, held none
of the acrid bitterness he had so often breathed in nearing the ironworks. He
slowed the roan slightly to allow one of the black iron wagons onto the high
road in front of the three of them. As always, despite the wind and snow, mals
were working in the loading yard to his left, lifting the iron pigs onto the
transport wagons. Beyond them, to the west, the blast furnaces were roaring, as
if trying to hold the chill of the oncoming storm back with the heat of burning
coke.

The
inn was also shuttered, but smoke rose from both the main chimney and the
kitchen chimney. The town square was close to empty, with only a small cart at
one end, and a youth calling out, “Hearth coal! Copper a stone! Hearth coal!”

Mykel
doubted whether the cart could have held more than four or five stones of coal,
probably grubbed from the roadsides and leavings around Iron Stem. He rode on
toward the cart.

The
youth took in the uniform riding jackets of the three Cadmians. “I wasn’t doing
nothing wrong, I wasn’t, sirs ...”

“I
never said you had, young fellow,” Mykel replied.

A
figure rose from behind the cart, a woman in a patched woolen coat,
narrow-faced and gray-haired. Mykel could sense the decay and the age
enveloping her. She would not live long.

“He’s
a good boy, sir, my grandson, he is.”

Mykel
laughed, then fumbled under his jacket, coming up with a half-silver. He tossed
it in a gentle arc toward the youth, who caught it, almost reflexively. “That’s
for you, young fellow. Use some of that coal to keep yourself warm.” He turned
the roan, noting the ice rimming the water in the trough below the public
fountain.

Behind
him, he couldn’t help but hear the words of the old woman.

“Keep
that coin ... boy! Luck, if you ever saw it. That there was the one they call
the Dagger... Rose from the dead, they say, with a crossbow bolt through his
heart. Broke the steel in half and pulled it out.”

Within
himself, as he looked northward, into the wall of gray that promised even
heavier snow, Mykel winced. Luck from a coin he’d tossed? Risen from the dead?
With an injured arm and a wound less than a month old?

Dainyl
arrived at the Myrmidon compound on the south side of Dereka less than a
quarter glass past morning muster. Captain Fhentyl rushed out to meet him,
almost before Dainyl had taken a handful of steps away from the coach and
through the outer gates.

“Marshal!
We’d thought you might be here more often, but we’d heard nothing.” Fhentyl
offered a sheepish smile, followed by an apologetic shrug.

“Much
as I would have liked to visit Dereka, I’ve been in Blackstear and Soupat.”

“We
heard about those. I’d thought... if you needed us ...”

Dainyl
laughed heartily. “You don’t know how close you came to being needed this time,
Captain. But after the losses you took at Hyalt, I didn’t want to call you in
unless absolutely necessary. That’s because I may need you again before too
long.”

“Yes,
sir.” Fhentyl paused. “Word is that you had a rough go of it in Soupat.”

“We
did. The insurgents brought a lightcannon powered by lifeforce. It cost us six
pteridons and Myrmidons — and the RA’s complex in Soupat. None of the
insurgents escaped, and there were close to two hundred.” Dainyl wasn’t about
to mention the handful of women and children who had survived. The disruption
and confusion might serve to protect them so long as everyone believed the
attackers had all perished.

“That’s
as many as all the Myrmidons on Acorus, sir. Some said that they were Myrmidons
from Ifryn.”

“Some
were. The Archon had four full companies of foot Myrmidons on Ifryn, each with
sixty rankers. Because a number didn’t survive the long translation, we don’t
know exactly how many Myrmidons were involved. In Blackstear they killed
everyone but the recorder. In Soupat, they did the same. But that’s over now.”

“Do
you have any duties for us now?”

“I’d
like you to run occasional patrols of the high road to the west, and the
sections of the aqueducts in the lower section of the Upper Spine Mountains. If
your scouts see anything unusual, they are not to approach too closely.” Dainyl
offered a crooked smile. “There have been reports of actions by the ancients
that could lead to hostile efforts, and I’d rather have the information about
what they might be doing, rather than lose any more pteridons or Myrmidons.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“Since
I’m here, I’ll also make a quick inspection.”

By
the time Dainyl had completed his inspection of the compound and was in the
coach headed back to the recorder’s building, a cold drizzle had begun to fall,
and the wind was colder. He had the feeling that the rain would be turning to
snow before long.

Jonyst
was actually in the library, rather than in the Table chamber, when Dainyl
arrived there. “Marshal.”

“Recorder.
Is there anything I should know? Or that you think I should?”

“The
number of attempted translations from Ifryn has dropped off considerably,”
Jonyst said. “We’ve only received two since last night. Both were wild, and
very weak.”

“It
could be that those with sufficient Talent and desperation have already tried.”

“Or
that the Archon is taking tighter control of the Tables prior to transferring
the Master Scepter.”

Or
both, thought Dainyl. “You will watch for Talent efforts by the ancients?”

“That
we can do.”

Dainyl
walked down the staircase from the library to the Table chamber. Jonyst
followed.

Once
there, Dainyl stepped onto the Table, concentrating on what lay beneath.

The
purpleness of the translation tube seemed more like a faint haze, and the Table
locator vectors appeared dimmer, if still distinct. The amber-green presence of
whatever the ancients had created was far stronger, a deeper green, yet
seemingly no closer.

Dainyl
focused on the white locator of Elcien.

As
the locator neared him, two things became more obvious. The translation tube
felt smaller and its “walls” more porous, and the purple flashes of
unsuccessful long translations had increased, but each was less powerful than
those of days and weeks previous.

He
stood on the Table at Elcien, shields firm, but the guards were far less
nervous than they had been in recent weeks. More telling, Dainyl did not see
Chastyl.

With
a pleasant smile, Dainyl left the Table and the chamber, but did not go far,
since Zelyert stood in the entrance to his private study.

“Marshal,
a moment of your most valuable time, if you would.” The High Alector of Justice
retreated into the study, leaving the door open.

“Of
course, sir.” Dainyl closed the study door after he entered, if warily. Zelyert
seemed to become more and more angry and hostile each time he met with Dainyl.
Dainyl remained standing since Zelyert had not seated himself.

“What
did you discover, if anything, in Dereka, Marshal?”

“Fifth
Company has recovered from the Hyalt effort and is ready to support us in
whatever may be necessary. The ancients massed a great amount of Talent a week
or so ago on the heights of the Aerial Plateau, so much that it was noted from Aelta.
Recorder of Deeds Jonyst confirmed that a number of the insurgent Myrmidons
attempted to use the Tables to flee and were unsuccessful.”

“While
you have been ... traveling, Marshal, the High Alector of Engineering has
lodged a number of complaints with both Duarches that your efforts disrupted
copper and tin production at a critical time. The Duarches are not pleased.”

Dainyl
suspected that Samist was the one not pleased, rather than Khelaryt.

“If
the High Alector of Engineering had been more careful in overseeing his
engineers so that they had not produced thousands of rifles and other pieces of
equipment that ended up in the hands of all sorts of indigen rebels, he would
not have to be so worried. Even the mountain brigands southwest of Soupat have
new unmarked Cadmian rifles. If the RA of Soupat had been more diligent in
guarding his Table, there also would have been less disruption. I did not cause
the disruption, yet I am being faulted for taking less than a week to resolve
it? Oh ... and I fail to see how I could have disrupted tin production, since
those mines were closed well before the Myrmidons arrived.”