Authors: L. E. Modesitt
“You’re suggesting
that Brekylt is worried about the ancients, and that he feels the Duarches aren’t
taking the potential threat seriously enough?”
“Are they?”
“Not from what I’ve
seen.” Dainyl looked at Lystrana, seeing for the first time the circles under
her eyes. “You’re tired, too.”
“Carrying a child,
even this early, is tiring. She presses for more lifeforce.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s the way it
is, dearest.”
If he hadn’t been so
exhausted, with pains shooting through both his right arm and left leg, and
seeing Lystrana so drained, Dainyl would have laughed, if ruefully.
Bringing the Master
Scepter to Acorus would not only destroy the world before its time, but reduce
his power and influence. The High Alector of the East and Alcyna wanted the
Master Scepter transferred, but only after removing Zelyert and Shastylt, in
order to gain influence, and they well might be building weapons to use against
the ancients, presumably because they feared that ancients might block the
transfer of the Master Scepter. The Duarch of Elcien wanted the transfer
because he feared worse if the Master Scepter went to Efra instead of Acorus.
And no one talked about any of it, or why it was better for it to be
transferred to one world rather than the other.
But then, according
to the Views of the Highest, there was only one best alternative.
Dainyl slowly rose to
get ready for bed—and sleep too long delayed.
15
On Octdi morning,
just after dawn, Mykel stood on the wide goldenstone pier that held the
Duarches’ Honor. With a length of more than two hundred yards and a main deck
that rose a good fifteen yards above the pier, the vessel towered over Mykel
and the men and mounts of Third Battalion as they waited to board. The greenish
gray metal of her hull plates gleamed dully in the light of a sun that had
barely risen and struggled to shine through hazy clouds. As with all of the
great ships of the Duarchy, there were no masts and no sails, and no coal was
taken aboard. So the propulsion system could not be one of the rare steam
engines such as those used in the manufactories of Faitel, the city, of
artisans and engineers where Mykel had grown up.
Mykel glanced to his
right at the long ramp that angled from the pier into a hatchway several decks
below the main deck, and then at Undercaptain Dyarth, who stood holding his own
mount, waiting to lead the troopers and mounts of Thirteenth Company up the
ramp.
The faintest halo of
yellow-brown surrounded the mount, that aura that enfolded all living things—or
the larger living creatures—but was visible only to Mykel and the soarers, and
perhaps a few others. Dyarth’s aura was stronger than his mount’s, an orangish
yellow. As Mykel had quietly concentrated on sensing such auras over the past
few weeks and become more adept, he had come to realize that the auras of most
people—at least all those he had encountered—seemed to contain some shades of
brown, but there was a wide variation, while the more limited auras of other
creatures seemed very similar. All horses seemed orangish yellow. He hadn’t
been able to sense auras for small creatures, but he had no idea whether that
was because creatures below a certain size had none or that he could not
discern them.
From behind Dyarth,
Mykel could hear the low murmurs of the rankers.
“... rather ride than
take a ship ...”
“... easier on the
mounts this way ... say it’s only two and a half, three days by sea. Take us
more like a week just to ride to Southgate.”
“Something happens on
land ... know where you are. Something happens at sea, and where are you?”
“That kind of
thinking, be glad you’re not a Myrmidon.”
Several rankers
laughed.
“What’s the farthest
you’ve had to carry a battalion?” Mykel asked the deck mate who stood beside
him, a gray-haired and wiry man close to the age of Mykel’s own father.
“Maybe twenty years
back, we took a whole battalion to Lysia. For some reason, the High Alector of
Justice replaced all the Cadmians there. I was just a fresh deckhand then.”
Three quick chimes
rang out from the deck above.
“You can start ‘em up
the ramp, Majer. Keep a good two yards between each horse. No more than two on
the ramp at once.”
“Thank you.” Mykel
turned to Dyarth. “Thirteenth Company, forward. Two yards between each mount.
Only two on the ramp at once. Pass it back.”
“Yes, sir. Thirteenth
Company! Forward! Two yards between.. .”
Bhoral followed
Undercaptain Dyarth.
“Everyone forms up on
the forward deck after the mounts are stabled,” Mykel said as Bhoral passed
him.
“Yes, sir.”
Mykel could have gone
ahead and left Bhoral to bring up the rear, but he could get a good look at
each and every trooper as they passed by him, and if his odd talent told him
something he didn’t already know about the troopers in his battalion, so much
the better.
By the time
Thirteenth Company and almost half of Fourteenth had passed him, his senses
confirmed that, as the troopers were of differing sizes and shapes, so were
their auras. He looked past a young ranker and stiffened inside. The man who
was next in line did not meet Mykel’s eyes, and his aura held streaks of an
ugly red.
Mykel struggled
mentally to recall the name of the trooper—Sacyrt. The ranker had been
transferred from Second Battalion, and, although Mykel could not have proved
it, the color of his aura suggested a troublemaker. “Sacyrt?”
“Yes, sir.” Surprise
and wariness colored the ranker’s voice.
“You’re being
transferred to Seventeenth Company. I trust you’ll find it a better fit. I
expect the best from every man.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the older ranker
led his mount past Mykel, he heard murmurs.
“... picked Sacyrt
out...”
“... just hope he
doesn’t pick any of us out... don’t want a majer watching you . . .”
Mykel hoped Sacyrt
felt the same way, but troublemakers usually thought that different rules
applied to them. He concentrated on the men as his own former company—Fifteenth
Company, led by Fabrytal—started up the ramp.
By the time the last
troopers and mounts—except his own—had walked up the ramp and into the ship,
Mykel had a dull headache. He rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath, then
untied the roan from a cleat attached to the nearest bollard. His saddlebags
bulged, partly from the ammunition belt he had tucked in at the last moment.
He stepped onto the
railed ramp. The surface had been coated with lacquer and then dusted with
sand, so that hooves had more purchase than on bare or painted wood.
“Easy, big fellow,”
he murmured to the roan, trying to project reassurance. The railing on the ramp
was sturdy, but not enough to take the weight of a spooked mount, and just
before the ramp entered the ship, man and mount would be some ten yards above a
very hard stone pier.
Once inside the ship,
where all the bulkheads and decks seemed to be of the same greenish-tinted
steel, another crewman stood waiting. His eyes took in Mykel’s collar insignia.
“Majer, your horse’s stall is forward. Straight to the next passageway. Then
turn forward— that’s to your right—and go as far as you can. Your stall will be
the first one on the right.”
“Thank you.”
As he led the roan
inboard and then forward, Mykel was reminded once more that the ship had been
built to carry horses—or alectors. The overheads in the main passageways were
close to three yards in height.
The stalls were
narrow, each one barely half the width of one in the stables in headquarters,
but that was as much for the protection of the mount in heavy seas as to save
space. Still, it would take very heavy seas to make footing unsteady on the
Duarches’ Honor.
After stabling the
roan, Mykel made his way forward and up two decks, carrying his saddlebags and
gear. Unlike the last trip, he rated a stateroom to himself, even if it had
little more than space enough for two bunks, one atop the other, and two
doorless lockers barely able to hold an officer’s travel gear. Mykel left the
saddlebags and hurried forward to the open section of the main deck forward of
the superstructure.
Bhoral and most of
the Third Battalion were already there.
“Seventeenth Company’s
last squads are still coming in,” announced Bhoral.
“We can wait a few
moments, but I’ll need to report to the captain.” Mykel glanced aft and up at
the open forward bridge where there stood two alectors—the captain and his
executive officer, two of the three alectors on a Duarchy ship. The other was
the chief engineer.
“You been on many of
these ships?” Mykel’s only other shipboard travel had been to and from Dramur,
but Bhoral had spent twenty years in the Cadmians.
“Not many,” replied
the senior squad leader. “This is the fourth. There aren’t that many ships.
Ten, I think. Ship this size and this fast, you don’t need many.”
Mykel glanced past
Bhoral. “Here come our lagging squads.”
The rankers and squad
leaders of the fourth and fifth squads from Seventeenth Company eased into
place.
“Third Battalion,
report!” ordered Bhoral.
“Thirteenth Company,
all present and accounted for....”
“Fourteenth Company,
all present....”
When the muster was
completed, Mykel stepped forward. “The rules here are simple. We’ll muster
twice a day, before breakfast, and before supper. From lights out to morning
call, you stay in your bunking spaces or the shipboard latrines ... if you can
stand them....”
That got a slight
laugh.
“All other times, we
have the freedom of the main
deck, the mess deck,
and the side deck. Don’t go anywhere else. We’ll be on the ship until Decdi.
That’s all for now.”
“Dismissed!” ordered
Bhoral.
Mykel turned and
moved quickly back to the ladder up to the ship’s bridge. When he reached the
lower bridge, he found himself facing a ship’s officer, a man with graying
brown hair and a single silver diamond insignia affixed to his collar.
“Majer, I’m Cylison,
the navigator’s mate. The exec asked me to take your report. He and the captain
will be occupied for the next few glasses.”
“I’d like to report
that Third Cadmian Battalion, Mounted Rifles, is ready for departure.”
“I’ll convey that to
the exec and captain.” Cylison smiled. “You’re fairly new to battalion command,
aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
Mykel laughed ruefully.
“Not by the
embarkation. That was as smooth as any I’ve seen, but you’re the youngest majer
I’ve encountered in fifteen years. You came hurrying up to report, and you were
surprised to see me. You’re all told to report embarkation to the captain, but
that means he needs to be informed, not that you’ll normally see him or the
exec. If the captain needs you, you’ll know.”
Mykel nodded, trying
not to be thrown off by the fact that the navigator’s aura also bore faint
tinges of purplish pink, something he’d seen before only with Majer Hersiod,
but the navigator didn’t seem at all intransigent the way Hersiod had.
“We should be porting
in Southgate around the second glass past midday on Decdi, but that could
change if we run into high seas. That sometimes happens this time of year, but
the reports from the Myrmidons indicate seas are calm as far south as Hafin.”
Cylison smiled warmly. “How did you get to be a majer so young ... if you don’t
mind my asking?”
“Third Battalion was
the one assigned to the Dramuran . . . problem. Mykel still wasn’t certain what
to call the last campaign, and the most generally used term was the word “problem.”
“After the majers in charge were killed, the senior captain took over running
the compound in Dramur, and I ended up commanding the remaining companies of
Third Battalion. The submarshal of Myrmidons appreciated what we did. The
senior captain was immediately promoted to majer in charge of all Cadmian
operations on Dramur, and I ended up with Third Battalion.” Mykel shrugged. “How
did you—”
“I’m sorry to have to
break this off, Majer, but the captain will be needing me—and your report. Best
of luck in Southgate, in case I don’t see you before we port.” With that,
Cylison turned and hurried up the ladder to the upper bridge.
Mykel managed to keep
a pleasant expression on his face as he came back down the ladder and forward
to a spot on the main deck, a good thirty yards aft of the bow on the starboard
side of the ship. Once there, he looked back at the bridge, where he saw the
two alectors, but not the navigator. Neither looked in his direction.
The ship hummed, or
so it seemed, as Mykel watched the last of the heavy lines be unfastened from
the man-high bollards on the dock and then reeled in by the deck crew. Mykel
sensed something, not exactly like an aura, nor like the ancient soarer who had
confronted him in Dramur, but similar and yet different. There was the same sense
of purpleness that had tinged the navigator, except it was far stronger, and
that was despite the fact that it was located somewhere aft and far below him.
Was that what propelled the vessel? But how? Did it touch or affect all those
who crewed the ship? Had Hersiod returned from his last deployment by ship?
Offhand, Mykel didn’t know, but he thought not.
Rhystan eased up to
the railing beside Mykel. “Could I join you, Majer?”
“Please.”
After several
moments, Rhystan broke the conversational silence. “Couldn’t tell this ship
from the last one, except for the name. Even the alectors up there—” He
gestured back toward the bridge. “—look like every other alector.”
“They even call all
the ships something of the Duarches,” Mykel added. “Duarches’ Honor, Duarches’
Legacy, Duarches’Valor...”