Scepters (90 page)

Wendra
eased Alendra to her shoulder, burped her, and then shifted her to the other
breast. “What do you think we should do now?”

“Head
back to Dekhron, or as close as we can get. The dark green and maroon Table is
at Salaan, and it’s on a ley line. It has to be. That’s close enough that we
can walk to Northern Guard headquarters.”

“You’re
going to use the Guard?”

“We
have to. We can infuse all the bullets with lifeforce and have them hold the
outside.”

“And
we’ll come in from inside?”

“Do
you have a better idea? Sending lancers inside would get most of them killed.
At a distance, the ifrits can’t do that much. I just hope that they haven’t
translated too many from their world while we’ve been learning what to do.”

“We
couldn’t have done it much faster.”

Alucius
had his doubts. They should have gone to Hieron first.

“You
did what you thought was best,” Wendra said. “Besides, we can’t change what’s
done.”

Alucius
knew that, but it didn’t keep him from wishing that he could.

Wendra
stood, burping Alendra once more. “She’s had enough. Let’s go.”

“To
Salaan?”

She
nodded.

Alucius
picked up the rifle with his left hand and took Wendra’s hand with his right.
Wordlessly, they concentrated.

The chill darkness welled up around them. Alucius concentrated on
the dark green and maroon beacon
—
and the purple pink
portal-like circle created by the scepter. He felt as though they rushed toward
the two, and he tried to slow that rush at the end, extending a Talent-thread
as an anchor, trying to press that thought/concept to Wendra as he rose through
darkness, a brownish darkness that he hoped was the hillside to the east of the
Table building. When he sensed light, he focused on seeing beyond the silver
barrier, and thought he could see a distorted hillside. He pressed forward, and
silver shards flew past and around him
.

Alucius
found himself on the hillside—or above it, and he barely kept his balance as he
dropped several spans onto the uneven slope. He turned, trying to find Wendra,
with both eyes and Talent. He could sense that she was nearby, but where?

Then
he began to grin.

“That’s
a nasty trick,” he said to the illusion of nothingness she had created.

The
illusion vanished.

“Did
I get it right?” asked Wendra.

“You
did indeed.” Alucius turned, and looking down and to the west, he saw the
building the ifrits had built to house their Table. “We need to start walking.
That’s where the Table is, and with only one rifle, I’d rather not have to
fight them off.”

“We
could use the ley lines again,” Wendra pointed out. “If we had to.”

“We
could, but… then we’d end up somewhere else, and I think we need to meet with
Feran and figure out how to attack them before they bring in more ifrits. That’s
if they haven’t already.”

They
started walking down the hill, a slope covered with sparse grass, a grayish
sandy soil, and scrub brush that Alucius did not recognize. He glanced toward
Salaan, a good vingt and a half to the northwest. “It’s about four vingts to
Guard headquarters.”

“The
walk will do us good.”

“As
long as the ifrits don’t send armed guards after us.”

“They
won’t,” Wendra predicted.

Alucius
hoped she was right, but he lengthened his stride. They’d had more than enough
delays. Useful as those had proved in some fashion, he couldn’t help but worry
that he’d delayed too much.

Salaan, Lanachrona

The
light of a spring sun shining through high hazy clouds oozed through the
west-facing windows of the conference room, where four ifrits sat around a
table.

Barylt
turned her head to look at the window. “Even the sunlight here offers no
warmth.” She shivered. “Everything is so cold… and so crude. There’s no
sculpture, no art, no music.”

“That’s
what we have to build and create,” Tarolt replied. “All worlds are crude before
we mold them. They’re often cold, as well. It is much warmer in the south, but
we were limited by where we could push through the Table tube after the
barriers gave way.”

“We
almost didn’t make the long translation,” Trezun added.

Lasylt
straightened, lifting his hand in an imperious signal for silence. His face
stiffened, and his eyes took on a faraway look.

The
silence continued. The other three looked at the senior fieldmaster. In time,
he lowered his hand, and his face relaxed slightly.

“What
was it?” asked Tarolt.

The
senior fieldmaster did not reply immediately. Then his eyes refocused, and he
looked at Tarolt, seated directly across the polished wooden table from him. “There
were two ancient ones, on the hillside to the east. They hovered there for
several moments. Then they were gone. Or their use of lifeforce vanished.” His
lips tightened. “You said they were dying.”

“They
are less than a handful, Fieldmaster, that is, of those who direct the species.
That does not mean that a few may not linger. It might also have been the
colonel and the woman with him. She might have been one of the ancient ones. I
could not tell.”

“Either
way, I suppose it does not matter, save that they must be blocked and defeated.”
Lasylt continued to frown, “But with the Talent-steer still loose, and two with
the powers of the ancient ones seeking out the Table… we dare not fail. Too
much is at stake. We will have to move the master scepter here from Efra in
less than a year, and we have far too few Efrans here on Acorus.”

Barylt
nodded, not quite emphatically.

“Less
than a year?” asked Tarolt. “You had said before… three to five years.”

“It
is taking more energy to maintain the tubes than we had calculated, and the
supporting lifemass birthrate on Efra is declining more quickly than predicted.
The Efran steers are spiritless, worse than those here on Acorus.”

“Do
you know how many Efrans tried to make the long translation?” asked Tarolt. “In
response to your orders?”

“More
than twenty,” replied Lasylt.

“Yet
only eight survived?” Trezun’s voice carried a hint of incredulity.

“Ten,”
replied Lasylt. “Two of them mistakenly translated to the new Table at Norda.
Once they recover, they will translate here to help protect the scepters.”

“Is
the young colonel that strong?” asked Barylt.

Tarolt
laughed. “He’s survived two translations through barriers, and he almost
broached the very shields of the scepter. He has managed to kill three
shadow-Efrans and one true translated Efran, and he can translate to both
Tables and portals. Yes, I would say that he is strong.”

“He
is nothing compared to what we offer, but he is strong enough to steal the
scepters, if we are not watchful and prepared to defend them. When the others
have recovered, we will hunt him down like the cowardly jackal he is. Once our
numbers increase, we will have no more of this nonsense. Steers must be steers,
and we must rule them to create the order and beauty we bring to a world.”
Lasylt added, “Shortly, we will seek out the colonel so that he cannot act
against us.”

“If
he is not already,” murmured Trezun under his breath.

Tarolt
glared at the Recorder.

Alucius
and Wendra had walked through Salaan and over the ancient River Vedra bridge,
then westward in Dekhron along a side street paralleling the river road,
because Alucius didn’t want to be recognized and have to explain… or refuse to
explain. By the time they were a hundred yards east of the open gates to the
Northern Guard post, it was early afternoon. Even though the day was windy and
cool, under high hazy clouds, he was sweating, and his feet ached. He was used
to riding long distances, not walking, and riding boots weren’t that well
designed for walking on hard-surfaced roads.

Alendra
was protesting that she was hungry, and a certain odor suggested that other
matters needed attention as well.

“It
won’t be that long,” Wendra crooned. “
Just
a little
longer, little girl, and we’ll get you cleaned up and fed. Just a little
longer.”

Alendra’s
cries suggested that a little longer was far too long to wait.

The
sentries at the gate watched as the two walked closer. With the hand not
carrying the rifle, Alucius unfastened the riding jacket enough to show the
colonel’s insignia he had replaced on his tunic collar.

“That
you, sir? Colonel?”

“It’s
me. Things didn’t quite go as planned. We’ve had a long walk.” Alucius smiled, “One
of you probably ought to go tell Majer Feran that we’re back.”

“Yes,
sir!” The younger sentry turned and ran toward the headquarters’ building.
Alucius and Wendra kept walking.

Ahead
of them, the young lancer’s voice echoed through the post. “Majer! The colonel’s
back! Big as life!”

Feran
was standing outside, watching as Alucius limped up to the headquarters. He
shook his head. “Couldn’t you have found an easier way to spend time with her,
sir?”

Alucius
laughed, as much at the dryness of Feran’s voice as anything else. “I didn’t
plan it that way. I thought the traders were up to something. They were, and
Wendra’s disappearance was connected to it. Once we get her settled in the
quarters, I’ll fill you in on what happened.”

Alucius
caught sight of a familiar figure in the doorway. “Dhaghet… would you help my
wife up to the quarters?”

“Yes,
sir.”

Wendra
smiled at Alucius, an almost enigmatic expression, but one that was both warm
and a warning to him not to reveal too much.

“I’ll
be up later,” he promised.

“Do
what you need to do.”

Alucius
nodded, watching as Dhaghet escorted her toward the steps to the upper level.
Then he turned and walked into headquarters. Once inside, he made his way into
the colonel’s study—his still, he imagined—and waited for Feran to follow.

Feran
shut the door.

“Where
have you been?” asked the older officer. “We found your mount in an orchard
south of Salaan. A grower reported it. I was holding off reporting your
disappearance.”

“Thank
you. I appreciate that.” With a deep breath, Alucius settled into the chair
behind the desk, happy to get off his feet.

“Was
this… the traders? Tarolt?”

“It’s
worse and more complicated than I’d thought. I started out tracking down Tarolt
because I thought he had to have used Talent to steal from the Guard. He caught
me off guard and locked me up, in a special way, and I got shot up some more…”

“Why
doesn’t that surprise me?” Feran asked dryly. His eyes narrowed, and he
frowned. “The traders have Talent?”

Alucius
had thought out how he wanted to approach that question. “We had it backward.
The traders are working with the Regent. They might even be controlling her,
rather than the other way around. That’s why they don’t want anyone to win.
Tarolt has more Talent than the prophet did. That’s how so many old traders
died, and why all the others do what he wants, He’s got two or three others
with Talent working with him. He probably used Talent to control Weslyn. That
could be why he and Imealt tried to kill me.”

“I
wondered about that. It didn’t make sense,” Feran said slowly. “Not unless they
knew you had Talent. You’ve always been a target. There have been more bullets
aimed at you than at anyone else.” He paused, then asked, “Is it because you’re
the only one who can stand up against that kind of Talent?”

“I
didn’t think so at first, but that just might be it.” Alucius offered a shrug. “You
remember the traders with the silver wheel on their wagons?”

“The
ones who supplied the prophet? I thought that was Halanat and his son.”

“It
was. But Tarolt was the one behind it. He’s been controlling everything.”
Alucius leaned forward slightly. “I was scouting out his place south of Salaan,
but he’d been watching me, and they set up a trap. I guess I got too cocky. I
ended up in a strange place with stone walls all around. The guards there weren’t
as good as Tarolt and his men, but it took some time to get free, and then I
found Wendra.” Those words were true in a sense, as true as Alucius dared to
make them.

“I
won’t ask how you managed that.” After a pause, the majer asked, “What can we
do?” He smiled, crookedly. “Knowing you, you’ve got a plan. And knowing you,
you’d not be too happy with anyone who hurt your wife.”

“I’m
not. But I’m even angrier at what Tarolt has done, and all the lancers killed
on all sides just so they can get more power and golds. We’ve got a war between
Lanachrona and Madrien, and if we don’t do something, before long the Regent
will be attacking all our companies in the north.”

“You
think that stopping Tarolt will help?”

“More
than you know.”

Feran
shook his head. “When you talk like that, it’s hard to believe otherwise.”

“You’ve
seen it. Weslyn did what they wanted. If we hadn’t come back when we did, what
would have happened to the Iron Valleys?”

“Nothing
good. So… what do we do now?”

“We
stop Tarolt and the handful around him. Most of the traders have just been
controlled by Tarolt and Halanat. Halanat’s dead. We take care of Tarolt, and
things will eventually settle down. But . . . we’ll have to be very careful. We
can’t storm his stronghold the way we did with the prophet. It would take years
for the Guard to recover from that, and the Lord-Protector might want both our
heads—or at least our immediate resignations or dismissals. And we’d lose a lot
of troopers to Talent, and we don’t need that, either.”

“I
can see that,” Feran said. “If it’s possible, I’d like to stay in service and
alive long enough to collect a stipend.”