Alector's Choice (2 page)

Dainyl stepped out of
the steaming shower, wishing that he didn’t have to, but there was only so much
hot water, even for an alector, even for a Myrmidon colonel, if one married to
an assistant to the High Alector of Finance. He quickly wrapped himself in a
heavy towel and dried before he got too chilled. After all the generations that
had passed since the coming of the alectors to Acorus, he would have thought
that they would have adjusted to the chill of the world, but it hadn’t
happened. Not yet, although the Duarches kept assuring all the alectors that
the place was markedly warmer than it had been in the centuries after the first
seedings.

Hurriedly, Dainyl
finished drying and pulled on his undergarments. Straightening, he glanced at
the full length mirror that showed a muscular figure of average height for an
alector, roughly two and a half yards, with the shimmering black hair and
alabaster complexion. His midsection remained trim. While alectors might not
age, they could certainly get fat if they overindulged, and Dainyl had a fear
of that, rare as it was. He slipped into the dressing area off the bedchamber,
where he donned trousers, undertunic, and boots.

“The girls have your
breakfast ready. We’ll eat in the sun room,” called Lystrana from the base of
the stairs. “It’s brighter there, but it’s a cool day for so early in harvest.”

“Thank you. I’ll be
right there.” With that warning from his wife, Dainyl decided to put on an old
tunic. He’d change to his uniform tunic after he ate. On warm days, the hottest
of mid- and late summer, he ate breakfast in his undertunic.

He hurried down the
stone steps to the main level and out toward the sunroom, with the wide glass
windows overlooking the courtyard garden. As he passed the archway to the
kitchen, Dainyl nodded to Sentya and Zistele. “Good morning-”

“Good morning,
Colonel.” The two serving girls— blonde landers, of course—wore sleeveless
tunics. Dainyl could see a trace of perspiration at the hairline of Zistele,
the younger.

Lystrana was almost
glowing as Dainyl stepped into the sunroom, and her smile was dazzling as she
rose from the circular table and stepped around it toward him.

“You look happy,” he
said.

“I am. We’ve waited
so long.”

“Just ten years. Some
of the lower alectors never receive permission, and I’m not exactly the highest
of the high. It’s more because of you than me.”

“It could be because
you’ll be the next Submarshal.”

“That’s far from
certain, and even a Submarshal is less than a high assistant.” Dainyl and
Lystrana had talked over Tyanylt’s death—quietly and when no one else was
around—but neither could think of a reason for his death except for what the
marshal had suggested. Going against superiors was always dangerous, regardless
of whether one was correct.

“Why doesn’t matter.”
Lystrana threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. She was almost as
tall as he was, and her body melded with his. “You don’t care, do you?”

“Of course, I care.
I’ve been as impatient as you’ve been. I may not show it—”

“Oh, no. That’s not
what I meant.” She whispered in his ear. “A boy or a girl. That’s what I
meant.” She leaned back slightly in his arms, her violet eyes intent on his
face.

Dainyl grinned,
ruffling her shimmering black hair with one hand. “Whatever will be.”

“You always know the
right things to say, and you mean them.”

He hoped that he did.

“You need to eat.”
She stepped out of his arms. “Your day starts earlier than mine.”

They seated
themselves across the table from each other. The early-morning sun was not yet
above the courtyard walls, but at least there was no chill from the full-length
glass panels between the pillars that showed the fountain and the garden
beyond.

Zistele appeared with
a pot of steaming cider, pouring it into the crystal mug set on the table
beside his place.

“Thank you.” He liked
the taste of ale better, but the heat of the cider was also welcome.

Zistele nodded,
refilled Lystrana’s mug, and stepped away. Sentya slipped a platter in front of
him, one with egg toast perfectly golden and three slices of lean ham. Beside
the platter on the left, she placed a small bowl of freshly sliced peaches.
Then she withdrew to leave the couple alone.

Lystrana had finished
but half of her breakfast while waiting for him, and she took a sip of the hot
cider.

Dainyl ate several
bites, then sipped his own cider before asking, “What does your day look like?”

“Long.” Lystrana
offered a rueful smile. “I was working on the accounts for the new coal mines
north of Faitel, but now the bursar in Tempre has misplaced something like
three thousand golds from the Lanachronan main administrative account.”

“Misplaced… or
stolen?”

“Misplaced, most
likely. He reported it long before anyone might have suspected, and the
regional Alector of Justice has already determined he isn’t lying.”

“Landers.” Dainyl
snorted. “You’re lucky he’s not an indigen. They’re even less perceptive.”

“That’s not always
true, and we’re not supposed to call them that,” Lystrana reminded him.

“It’s better than
calling them steers, the way some do, just because they feed the lifeforce that
we need.”

“Careful, dearest.
Even in the Views of the Highest, they’re both called steers. Kylana has
pointed that out more than once.”

“Even some alectors
are steers in the way they think. The Views of the Highest suggests that, too,”
Dainyl pointed out.

“Kylana—and your
marshal—would rather avoid thinking about that. She says that if it looks like
a steer, acts like a steer, and talks like a steer, it is a steer.”

“Alectors look the
same, but we have varying levels of Talent, and that’s a big difference.
Landers and indigens even look different, most of the time. Most landers are
blond, and some even exhibit Talent. No indigen ever has.”

“I think you’ve made
your point. Again.”

Dainyl laughed
softly. “I should never forget that my wife is a brighter and more important
personage than is this poor colonel.”

“Poor Dainyl,” teased
Lystrana. “You command hundreds, and you think yourself less than a wife who has
but a small study adjoining the High Alector of Finance.”

“A wife who knows
where every gold in Coras lies,” he retorted humorously, “and probably every
alector who collects interest on each. And I don’t command anyone directly.”

“Most of the usury is
by landers. You know that. They’re far more interested in golds than in power.”

He did, but found it
hard to believe, even if his eyes reminded him every day. The dwellings in the
merchants’ quarters were far more opulent than those of most alectors. Even the
Duarch’s Palace in Elcien and the various mansions of the Highests were
comparatively modest, and they comprised but a fraction of the alectors’
quarter. Dainyl and Lystrana’s dwelling was modest, with but four bedcham-bers,
one of which was a seldom used guest chamber, plus, of course, the lower-level
servants’ quarters. They only had the two girls, while most successful
merchanters had staffs of a half score or more.

“You’ll have to go to
Tempre, then? By Table?” he asked. “It’s important enough that you can miss the
sentence of justice this afternoon?”

“I was at the last
one, in the spring, and the one before that,” Lystrana replied. “I don’t need
to be reminded of what happens if we abuse power. You’ll be there for me.”

“We provide the
guard—and the pteridons. I’m not looking forward to it.” Dainyl had come to
dread those times justice was laid down upon an alector, infrequent as they
were.

“I know.”

“You’re fortunate you
can use the Table,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“Nothing else is
practical. By sandoxes, it’s almost a week each way. Even if there were a
Myrmidon courier headed there, it’s a day and a half each way by pteridon.”
Lystrana smiled ruefully. “Besides, it’s occasionally useful to have an alector
from Elcien appear immediately in response to a problem.”

“You will be back
tonight?”

“You had plans for
end day?”

“I had thought we
could hear the concert at the Palace on Novdi evening. Colonels and above, and
their spouses, were invited. I’d thought you would have gotten your own—”

“I did.” Lystrana
smiled warmly. “I didn’t know if you wanted to go… and I didn’t want to say
anything in case you didn’t.”

Dainyl again marveled
at his wife. “You could stay in Tempre tonight and come back midday tomorrow if
you need more time. I didn’t mean…”

“I know. But if I
can’t find the missing golds in a day, it will take all the records and a
week.” She sighed. “Even local translations are tiring, but I am glad for the
Tables.”

“Will that be a
problem… later?”

Lystrana shook her
head. “Not while I’m pregnant. Afterward… I wouldn’t want to carry a child to
most of the provincial centers—except Alustre… or Soupat, because it’s actually
warm enough.”

“Your Highest needs
you too much. No one else has a better feel for the Duarchy’s accounts.”

Lystrana smiled.
“You’d best be going.”

Dainyl swallowed the
last of the cider and rose. “You’ll be late this evening?”

“I wouldn’t think
so.” Lystrana also stood. “Sentya! We’re finished here.”

“Yes, Alectress.”
Sentya appeared with a tray before Dainyl and Lystrana had left the sunroom.

“She’s good, I have
to say,” said Dainyl, following his wife upstairs to their chambers.

“We pay her to be
good.”

Unspoken was the
thought that, without the alectors of Ifryn, Sentya and all the landers and
indigens would still be living in mud huts and scraping out a bare existence
from a cold and barren land.

Back upstairs in the
dressing chamber, while Lystrana bathed, Dainyl hung the old and warm black
tunic on the rack on his side of the chamber and donned his uniform trousers,
dark gray, and his shimmercloth tunic, brilliant blue with dark gray piping. He
adjusted the collar and fastened the gray officer’s belt in place. Next, he
checked the crystal charge level in his sidearm—the standard light-cutter for a
Myrmidon officer—then slipped it into the holster on the left side of the belt.

Last came the gray
gloves. Depending on how cool it was outside, he might actually wear them. The
ride to Myrmidon headquarters would warm him some, especially if the hacker
stayed on the sunnier streets.

Many worlds have
life, but on most, life remains little more than pond scum, lichens upon the
side of a rock facing a cold sun, or tiny animalcules darting through stagnant
waters, too unaware to comprehend danger, however dimly, and too limited for
their offspring or their offspring’s offspring ever to rise from those waters
to awareness and thence to aspirations and dreams to place a stamp upon an
uncaring and indifferent universe.

Upon that mere
handful of worlds hosting life-forms that rise above a thin grasp of rock and
water, two kinds of life exist—that which is aimless and that which is
directed, either self-directed or directed from without. Long have there been
those who claim that higher life is always directed from without, and that such
guidance proceeds from a supreme being, a deity who shapes a world until
intelligence emerges, then reveals the divine will to selected individuals.

This is a most
comforting belief, yet, like most unthinking beliefs that offer comfort, there
is little in the universe to support it. The multiplicity of barren worlds, as
well as the demonstrated failures of such “divine guidance” in our own long
history, should disabuse all but the most misguided of the illusion of the
involvement of a supreme being in the affairs of life and living beings.

In fact, as the
chronicles of hundreds of centuries demonstrate, life arises by chance and as
it will. All too often higher life upon a world will arise, then vanish, at
times leaving no record of its passing, at others, leaving ruins that suggest
either poverty of spirit and aspiration or little of ei-ther, save procreation.
Is then life a game of chance, a set of bone-dice rolling itself against the
odds?

Views of the Highest

Illustra

W.T. 1513

5

At a quarter past the
second glass of the afternoon, Dainyl began his preparations for the
administration of justice scheduled to begin at the third glass, preparations
he had expected to make, but not oversee completely. When he had arrived that
morning, he had learned that the marshal had left for Iron Stem, leaving Dainyl
fully in command of a proceeding that was exceedingly distasteful. All Dainyl
knew was that the Cadmian officer in charge there had sent an urgent dispatch.
The marshal had left no instructions.

First, the colonel
took out the crimson armband that signified alector misconduct or blood wrongly
shed, or both, and fastened it into place on his upper left sleeve below the
shoulder. Then he checked his sidearm and straightened his tunic.

After leaving his
study, he went to find Undercaptain Zernylta, third squad leader and acting
commander of First Myrmidon Company in the absence of Captain Ghasylt, who had
left with the marshal early that morning to fly to Iron Stem.

Zernylta was standing
by the duty desk, talking with the duty officer, Undercaptain Yuasylt.

“Zernylta?”

“Yes, Colonel?”
Zemylta was a slender alectress, but tall and wiry. Like Dainyl, she had blue
eyes, rather than the violet usual for most alectors. Her crimson armband was
already in place.

“Third squad will be
escorting the prisoner. Are they prepared?”

“I just checked. They
all have their armbands and sidearms, and the crystals are fully charged. The
prisoner was brought in a glass ago, and he is in the holding cell. The duty
coach is already standing by at the Hall of Justice.” She paused. “What was he
actually convicted of, Colonel?”

“According to the
briefing sheet,” Dainyl replied, “he abused his house servants, physically and
sexually, and he used Talent contrary to the Code of the Duarches.”

“Stupid,” murmured
the black-haired woman. “Abusing steers is bad enough, but to force sex, and
then use Talent to cover it up—he deserves more than he’ll get.”

While that wasn’t
possible—the sentence was death— Dainyl understood what she meant. Being an alector
granted one power, but also entailed great responsibility, and the Archon and
the Duarches punished abuse of that power severely. There wasn’t any option,
not with so few alectors compared to the millions of indigens and landers.

He nodded and walked
down toward the north end of the building to check the holding cell and third
squad. After inspecting and checking all that was necessary, finally, at a
quarter before the third glass, Dainyl stepped out into the courtyard behind
the headquarters building. The two remaining squads of First Company—first and
second squads—and their pteridons were forming up to the south of the flight
stage. Third squad would be escorting the prisoner, and half of fourth squad
had gone with the marshal, while the other half was out flying dispatch runs.

Dainyl turned and
surveyed the circular graystone platform that stood in the center of the
courtyard behind the Myrmidon headquarters—the flight stage for the pteridons.

The stone stage stood
a yard and a half above the paved courtyard and also doubled, if infrequently,
as it did now, as the site for the administration of justice to alectors. The
raised stones were empty, with only the justice stand—a crossbar affixed atop a
single post—set in place for what was to come.

After several
moments, Dainyl turned back to the south and walked toward Undercaptain Ghanyr.
Behind the un-dercaptain were four Myrmidon rankers and, set as closely as they
could be, which still took a square a good thirty yards on a side, five
pteridons, blue wings folded back, blue crystalline eyes looking forward.

Did the pteridons
anticipate what would come? Dainyl had never known, even with his own, back
when he’d been a ranker, then a junior officer.

“We’re ready, sir.”
Ghanyr glanced down at his arm and the crimson armband. “Hate wearing it.”

“We all do. That’s
why it’s required.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dainyl moved toward
Undercaptain Yuasylt, who had left the headquarters building just before the
colonel, and second squad and its pteridons. The pteridons of third squad were
ranked just behind those of first and second squad, but without their riders,
since third squad was providing prisoner escort.

“Almost ready,
Colonel,” announced Yuasylt.

“Good.” Dainyl wasn’t
certain he was ready, necessary as what was about to happen might be. As he had
surveyed the courtyard and the squads of First Company, alectors from all
around Elcien had begun to arrive, coming in by themselves, in groups of two or
three, and standing on the north side of the landing stage. He could see several
assistants of the Duarch, quietly noting who had appeared.

Finally, Dainyl
turned. “Myrmidons, ready!”

“First squad, present
and ready!”

“Second squad,
present and ready!”

With that, Dainyl
turned and waited, standing at attention.

As Dainyl and the Myrmidons
continued to wait, more alectors slipped into the courtyard. With just a few
moments before the third glass of the afternoon, more than a hundred
alectors—besides the Myrmidons—stood waiting. Although the day was not that
hot, Dainyl could feel perspiration oozing down the inside of his uniform, more
a result of his own discomfort than of any real heat, pleasant as the cloudless
harvest afternoon was.

From the headquarters
building came three deep chimes. All conversation and whispers died away.

The High Alector of
Justice stepped from the headquarters building. He wore a tunic and trousers of
purple, trimmed with black. Upon his upper left sleeve was a crimson armband
identical to the ones worn by all the Myrmidons. Across his chest was a black sash.
Behind him were his two assistants, attired in a similar fashion, except
without the sash. One carried the lash, with its black tendrils, tipped with
razor-sharp barbs. The other carried the mace of justice.

The High Alector
climbed the steps to the landing stage and walked to the center, placing
himself three yards back of the empty justice stand.

“Bring forth the
malefactor!” The High Alector’s deep voice boomed across the courtyard.

The doors of the
headquarters building opened, and Undercaptain Zernylta stepped out, followed
by two rankers. Behind them stumbled an alector in nearly shapeless dark red
trousers and shirt, barefooted, with his hands manacled behind his back. Two
more Myrmidons walked behind the malefactor.

The courtyard
remained quiet as the Myrmidons escorted the alector in red to the steps onto
the stage, then to the justice form.

The High Alector
stiffened slightly as the Myrmidons unshackled the prisoner. Dainyl could sense
the immense well of Talent marshaled to strike, if necessary, but the
malefactor did not move as his wrists were clamped to the frame and a red hood
was slipped over his head. The Myrmidons stepped back, reforming behind the
alector and his two assistants, one male and one female.

In the silence, the
High Alector stepped forward. “We are here to do justice. You are here to see
justice done. So be it.” He turned toward the alector strapped to the frame
“You, Bealtyr of Elcien, have abused those who trusted you. You have betrayed
the trust placed in you by the Archon and the Duarches. You have deceived, and
you have cheated all who live upon Acorus by your acts. For your crimes, you
have been sentenced to die.”

The High Alector
paused, then turned to accept the lash from the taller assistant, who then
stepped back. The otüer assistant stepped forward, holding the Mace of Justice
in her hands.

“Justice will be
done.” The High Alector of Justice raised the lash, and struck.

The barbs on the lash
were sharp enough to shred normal cloth and flesh with but a single blow, but
the lash was as much symbolic as physical because, as the lash struck, the High
Alector used his Talent and the crystals concealed within the Mace to rip
chunks of the very lifeforce from the malefactor. Rather than waste that
energy, it was funneled to the pteridons formed up behind first and second
squads, who drew it and stored it for when they would next fly.

The High Alector
needed but five strikes from the lash barbs before the figure in the tee-frame
slumped forward, unconscious, blood splattered across his back and oozing over
the red garments.

Brief as those five
strokes had been, even so, Dainyl had to brace himself against the agony
radiated from the malefactor and Talent-spread across the watching alectors. He
watched as several alectors swayed. One young man pitched forward, and those
beside him barely caught him before he would have struck the paving stones of
the courtyard.

Two more strikes of
the lash followed before Dainyl could sense the emptiness that signified death.
He managed to keep his lips tight together.

“Justice has been
done.” The High Alector nodded to the assistant with the Mace.

She turned the Mace
on the figure in the frame. A pinkish purple haze flared over the dead alector,
then vanished. Only the empty frame remained.

Actually, the Mace
was attuned only to the specially treated red clothing. With death, the
alector’s body would have turned to dust and less in moments, but the use of
the Mace provided absolute visual closure.

Had justice been
done? Dainyl wasn’t sure of that. He was more than certain that, without the
visual and emotional reminders provided by the spectacle—and the required
regular attendance by all alectors—that far more abuse of position and Talent
would have occurred. Great power required even greater checks, as pointed out
so clearly in the Views of the Highest, and by there being two Duarches sharing
the administrative powers delegated by the Archon on Ifryn.

But did such checks
provide true justice? That was another question, one that Dainyl could not
answer, not honestly.