Soarers Choice (22 page)

Dainyl
nodded.

“Derai
will escort you to the coach.”

A
slender alectress appeared, and Dainyl followed her out through the foyer.
Behind him, before the door closed, he caught part of what the recorder said.

“When
a High Alector wears that sash, don’t get in his way or be around when he
delivers the message.”

The
corridor outside the Table chamber was walled in green marble with a gray granite
floor. While Dainyl knew the Table was in the Hall of Trade and Engineering,
he’d never translated to Ludar before. He followed Derai to the circular
staircase that spiraled upward, and emerged in a hallway lit by expansive
clerestory windows.

“The
portico is this way, sir.”

The
area held but a single coach — gray with red trim.

The
driver took in Dainyl’s uniform — more than the sash, Dainyl thought — and
leaned down and opened the door. “Sir.”

“Take
the marshal straight to the Duarch’s portico, Geram,” ordered the alectress.
“Sir... right away.”

Dainyl
slipped into the coach and closed the door. No sooner had it closed than the
driver eased the team into motion. Once clear of the roof over the coach area,
Dainyl leaned forward to get a better view. Although he had flown over Ludar in
the past, especially years back when he had done the dispatch runs, he had
never traveled the distance between the Trade and Engineering Hall and the
Duarch’s Palace on the ground.

If
Elcien was the city of spires, then Ludar was the city of arches and domes, its
structures lower, more rounded, with more distance between them, the space
filled with wide lawns, hedges, and flowers, even in late fall. But then, Ludar
was more than two hundred vingts south of Elcien and on the warmer and more
sheltered end of the Bay of Ludel.

As
the coach passed the gardens of the Duarch of Ludar, Dainyl noted that they,
too, were spread more, with the hedges lower, and the flower beds wider. There
was also no topiary, and he could smell the lingering fragrance of the autumn
lilies. Those in Elcien had faded weeks earlier.

Geram
turned into a narrower lane at the west end of the Palace, a structure that was
but two stories in height and extended more than half a vingt from the west end
eastward. The coach halted at what was clearly a private, or at least
restricted, entrance. Two guards in green and silver stepped forward, then,
once they saw the uniform or the sash or both, stepped back. Dainyl walked
quickly through the archway toward a single door that opened inward as he
neared.

The
functionary who met Dainyl just inside the entryway took one look at the sash,
then nodded, although Dainyl could sense the alector’s dismay. Was the sash
only used for urgent and terrible news?

“The
Duarch is in the music room, Marshal, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed
there, but there’s no help for that. This way, sir.”

Given
the extent of the Palace, Dainyl was braced for a long walk, but he had gone
less than sixty yards when his guide stopped at a door, knocked, and opened it.
“Here, Marshal.”

Not
without some trepidation, Dainyl stepped through the doorway as the sounds of a
violin swept around him, music he did not recognize.

The
music-room door clicked shut behind Dainyl. The chamber itself was twice the size
of Khelaryt’s study, and floor-to-ceiling windows comprised the entire outer
wall. At the north end was a series of oversized shelves built into the paneled
wall, filled with thin books and folders, possibly bound sheet music. A table
desk with its top in the shape of a semicircle was placed before the music
shelves.

Standing
between the desk and Dainyl was a tall alector, who had been playing the
violin. As the echo of the sweet notes died away, the Duarch turned to face
Dainyl.

Samist
looked to be fractionally shorter than Khelaryt, but that still left him a
figure who would tower over most alectors. Like Khelaryt once had, he embodied
Talent that surrounded and infused him, power enough to take down a half-score
of High Alectors. He was dressed in a sleeveless tunic, with a clinging
undertunic, both of purple. He held a violin and a bow.

“You
know,” he began, then broke off the words as he saw Dainyl and the sash. “It
must be urgent for Khelaryt to turn the Marshal of Myrmidons into a messenger.”

“Yes,
Most High.”

With
a weary smile, Samist carefully laid the violin and then the bow on the music
table. “ ‘Sir’ will do.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“What
is it?”

“It’s
simple enough, sir. From what we have learned, the Master Scepter will be or is
already being transferred to Efra — “

The
unseen darkness of anger and Talent shrouded the Duarch. Unlike Khelaryt,
Samist did not lash out with Talent at Dainyl.

Even
so, Dainyl could feel the enormous force of Talent rising, ready to strike.

“Stop!”
demanded the Duarch.

Dainyl
waited, unsure what to do with Samist reacting so differently. Still, he held
his shields as strongly as he could.

The
Duarch shuddered. Talent swirled around him like a storm before vanishing,
leaving the Duarch standing before the table that held the violin and bow, his
Talent reduced to that of an extremely powerful alector. “Now ... please repeat
what you said and go on.”

“From
what we have learned, the Master Scepter will be or is already being
transferred to Efra. Those fleeing Ifryn who have reached Acorus are confirming
that many of those closest to the Archon have already translated to Efra. The
guards at the Tables on Efra are slaughtering scores every day — “

“They
have been so kind as to tell you that?” Samist’s sardonicism was spoken gently,
but Dainyl could feel the Duarch’s probes.

“The
information was sent back to the recorders on Ifryn to warn people not to try
the long translations without authorization. Several Table functionaries have
made their way to Acorus and reported this. The Table in Elcien alone has
received a score of refugees in the last day.”

Samist
laughed. “Oh, how Khelaryt misjudges me.”

Dainyl
wanted to ask how. He did not.

“Deep
within I have always felt that the Master Scepter would not come to Acorus, yet
I could say nothing, only find ways to encourage, or not discourage, those who
were more realistic. Khelaryt was the idealist and thought I was trying to
thwart the transfer here, rather than recognizing what could not be. You are
here only to break the shadowmatch so that my Talent will not surpass his. Is
that not so?”

“He
did not say, sir, but I would judge so.”

“Poor
Khelaryt.” Samist laughed once more. “If he could only see what must be, but
that is not his role.”

“What
might that be, sir?” Dainyl wanted to change the subject, and quickly.

“Khelaryt’s
role was his to choose. Not so Acorus. It will always be the violated
handmaiden. How else could it be?”

“Because
of the ancients, or because it is so cold?”

“Both
... and because it is where those who displeased the Arcnon were sent.” Before
Dainyl could say another word, Samist went on. “You have released me from
bondage, so to speak, Marshal.” Samist laughed once more. “You have done so
early enough that all may not be lost for what I would have done. What favor would
you wish? To become a High Alector? To replace Zelyert?”

“No,
sir.” Dainyl paused briefly. What did he want? Dare he ask?

“Then
what do you wish — assuming that you live long enough for me to offer a favor?
You must know that Zelyert will be less than pleased with Khelaryt’s loss of
the shadowmatch and the associated Talent-strength.”

“I
am certain some will be displeased and others pleased.”

“You
sound much like your predecessor.”

“I
am not much like Shastylt, but I know little of those around you, or of any
around Duarch Khelaryt, except for High Alector Zelyert.”

“A
cautious marshal, yet one who flew against an entire company.”

Dainyl
offered a polite smile.

“Speak.”

“I
understand you have not yet named the regional alector for Tempre.”

“You
would wish that?”

“Not
for myself, but for my wife. She is a most capable administrator.”

The
Duarch of Ludar laughed once more. “That she is, and she would make a very
capable RA. It would also handicap that idiot Chembryt, who could do little
without her.” His long fingers intertwined, and he nodded. “I cannot make her
RA of Tempre, but Yadaryst suffered a wild translation several days past. Would
you consider... would she consider becoming RA in Dereka?”

“I
think she would, although that would have to be her deT cision.”

“If
she would, that would resolve many ... difficulties ...”

Dainyl
was both elated and dismayed. He was anything but certain that Lystrana would
wish to leave the beauty and glory of Elcien for Dereka. Yet he harbored the
growing sense that Elcien would not be the best place to be after the Master
Scepter was actually transferred. “I can only ask her.”

“Do
that, Marshal. If she is willing, have her translate here to see me to receive
the appointment. No later than Septi.” A sad smile crossed his face, a visage
slightly too long to be ideal for an alector, especially for a Duarch. “If that
is all, I would like to return to the violin.”

Dainyl
bowed, still wary, still holding full shields. “That is all. By your leave,
sir.”

“By
my leave.”

After
another nod, Dainyl turned and left the music room.

Once
he closed the door, he thought he heard the Duarch resume playing, but he
wasn’t sure. Playing the violin ... after losing so much Talent? Was Samist
that composed? What did that say about Khelaryt? What did Dainyl face on his
return to Elcien?

“This
way, sir.”

Dainyl
followed the functionary.

Dainyl
found the coach and driver still waiting outside the Palace of the Duarch in
Ludar. After a quick trip back to the Table chamber in the Hall of Engineering
and Trade, he stepped toward the Table, but had to wait as one of the guards
folded a set of clothing around a pair of boots, then added the bundle to the
short stack in the corner of the chamber before resuming his position at the
corner of the Table nearest the door. The air held a sickly sweet odor that
threatened to turn Dainyl’s stomach, a stench that reminded him too vividly of
what had happened in Hyalt.

“More
wild translations?” Dainyl asked Puleryt.

“Unacceptable
translations, sir. He was a street poet from Yarat. He demanded artistic
asylum.”

“Why
did he need asylum?” Dainyl couldn’t imagine a street poet anywhere on Ifryn
being a danger to anyone.

“He
didn’t say. He only said that the Archon had forbidden all dissident artists to
translate from Ifryn. He begged. He even groveled.”

“And
the guards shot him?”

“Orders
from the Archon and the Duarch, sir. No one, except pregnant alectresses, who
does not have a pass ordersealed by a High Alector is to be accepted. We would
be overwhelmed.”

Although
he knew logically that what the recorder said was true — he and Lystrana had
actually worked out the lifeforce-carrying ability of Acorus a year earlier —
the thought of killing people whose only offense was a desire to live added to
the nausea he already felt. He nodded politely, swallowed, and stepped up onto
the Table. Concentrating, he felt himself sliding through the silvered surface
and ...

...
into the purple-shaded gloom of the translation tube. All around him flashed
streaks of purple, but he concentrated on the brilliant white locator of
Elcien, simultaneously trying to hold and rebuild his shields before he
appeared on the Table there.

The
silvered-white barrier flashed toward him...

...
and he had to take a quick step to balance himself.

“It’s
the marshal!” called out Chastyl.

Dainyl
quickly cleared the Table and made his way out through the foyer and into the
corridor, conscious that most eyes had been on him.

An
assistant whose name did not immediately come to mind stepped toward him. “The
Highest will be down from the Hall shortly.”

“The
Duarch insisted I return to report to him immediately,” Dainyl demurred,
glancing down at the sash across his chest. He recalled the alector’s name. “I
am certain that the High Alector will understand that, Cartalyn.”

“I
will tell him, Marshal.” Cartalyn’s words suggested Zelyert would not
understand at all.

“You
can tell him I’ll return once the Duarch has dismissed me.”

“Yes,
sir.” Cartalyn sounded barely mollified.

Dainyl
hurried up the stairs and out through the concealed entrance. The rain he had
anticipated before he left had begun to fall, but as a chill drizzle that,
under the dark clouds, turned all Elcien gray. He found a hacker almost
immediately, although he could have walked the distance, had it been necessary,
but he preferred not to arrive at the Palace soaked.

Even
so, his tunic was still damp in places as he followed Bharyt along the corridor
back to the Duarch’s study. Dainyl was not looking forward to the reception he
would receive once he reported back to Khelaryt. He only hoped that he had
Talent-read the un-shadowmatched Duarch correctly.

Khelaryt
was standing at the study windows looking out into the rain. He turned as
Dainyl entered, but waited until Bharyt closed the door. “You told him?”

“Yes,
sir. I did.”

“And
he let you leave?”

“He
offered me a favor for freeing him of the shadowmatch,” Dainyl volunteered. “I
think he already suspected that the Master Scepter would go to Efra and was
having great difficulties with the shadowmatch.”