He repressed a faint smile, as they moved forward. "Not too late. The Duarch isn't here."

Twenty-five tables were arrayed in an arc on the polished marble floor.

Five chairs were set around one side of each circular table, positioned so that all five could view the dais on which four empty chairs awaited the performers. The center two tables-reserved for the Duarch and his wife and guests-provided an unobstructed view of the dais.

The octagonal floor tiles of green marble were linked by smaller diamond tiles of gold marble, and each tile was outlined in brilliant bronze. The center of the floor just below the performing dais was inset with an eight-pointed star of golden marble a yard across, also outlined in ? thin line of a brilliant bronze. The hangings on the side walls were green velvet, trimmed in gold, and set at precise intervals to damp echoes without muting the quality of the sound.

"We can sit with Kylana and Zestafyn," suggested Lystrana.

"Of course." Dainyl understood that his wife's mild words were anything but a suggestion. Kylana was the assistant to the High Alector of Transport, and her husband was officially the Duarch's liaison to the regional alectors. Effectively, he was the head of intelligence for the Duarch of Elcien."Your mother is at the next tab'e," murmured Lystrana.

"I wouldn't have expected her. She usually avoids chamber concerts."

"Exactly."

Dainyl continued to the table ahead, then stopped and bent, smiling at the black-haired woman-not that any alec-tor had hair other than shimmering black-who looked no older than her son. "I hadn't expected you here."

Alyra returned her son's smile. "Every so often I do come to a concert."

Her smile widened slightly as her eyes moved to Lystrana.

"Congratulations, dear."

"Thank you. Might I call upon you in the future?"

"Always... you've done so much for Dainyl."

Dainyl kept smiling. Lystrana had done much for him. She'd advised him and guided him for nearly thirty years, long before they were married, from when he'd been an un-dercaptain with few prospects-and he'd listened and learned,.especially about enhancing his Talent. He'd never been able to learn much from his mother, not with her arrogance.

"He's done it all himself, Alyra. I'm just good at listening." Lystrana smiled warmly, projecting warmth in a way that Dainyl had great difficulty emulating. "We must talk later. I see Kylana beckoning."

Dainyl kept his smile in place until they were well away.

Lystrana squeezed his hand gently, then spoke to the woman at the table they approached. "Kylana... if we could join you?"

"We'd be delighted." Kylana gestured to the seats to her husband's right. She was extremely short and slender for an alector, not even quite two yards tall, with a narrow face and deep-set golden eyes-a throwback to a bad translation by her grandmother, she'd claimed. Dainyl suspected it was the result of her own translation from Ifryn to Acorus, not that he would ever have said so.

Lystrana eased into the chair beside Zestafyn, and Dainyl took the oneto Lystrana's right.

"The word is that you had an interesting day in Tempre on Octdi,"

offered Zestafyn, turning to Lystrana.

"The missing golds, you mean? They weren't missing at all, it turned out. Just misrecorded." Lystrana paused as a lander serving girl appeared.

"The Vyan Amber Crown."

"The same," added Dainyl.

The server girl nodded politely and slipped away.

"Victyn was most relieved," continued Zestafyn. "He is a good sort, especially for a lander, and he does try very hard."

"Sometimes, those are the worst," observed Kylana. "They wish to follow every rule and procedure. They forget who gave them those procedures. I wish that we were allowed to tell them of Ifryn and the power that resides there. Then, they wouldn't forget."

Dainyl had his doubts about that. Even alectors tended to forget about powers that were distant and not exercised. That had been one of the points of the public execution- public only to alectors.

"Dearest," replied Zestafyn, "that may be, but it's a waste of time to blame a tool for operating the way it was designed."

"Zestafyn is so philosophical," said Kylana.

"Just practical." The liaison's deep voice was matter-of-fact.

Dainyl nodded as politely as he could, hoping that it wouldn't be too long before the Duarch appeared and the concert could begin. Unlike many, he'd actually come for the music. At times, he had to wonder what a concert might be like in Illustra, with a full orchestra and thousands of compositions from which to select. Then, if Acorus were to be chosen to host the master scepter, there would be more music, and plays, and a greater flowering of art and innovation.

A single high chime interrupted his thoughts-and the conversations around him. All the alectors stood as the Duarch entered the concert hall.At three yards in height, he was an impressive figure even among alectors, with his bril-liant white face, flashing purple eyes, and hair so deep and black that, paradoxically, it seemed to radiate light. His smile and the Talent behind it warmed the room.

"Please. I apologize for being late. Let us enjoy the music."

Beside the Duarch was his wife, who also functioned as a regional auditor, and her smile was almost as warm. One hundred and seven alectors now sat at the tables in the concert hall. Roughly two thirds of the alectors assigned to El-cien, reflected Dainyl, a trifle low for a concert, but then all had heard the quartet before. The novelty was not in the players, but in the latest compositions sent through the great translation tube from Ifryn with the infrequent translations of Myrmidon rankers or other lower-level alectors.

Dainyl was in fact a rarity, a senior Myrmidon officer born on Acorus who had worked his way up from being a ranker into the officer corps.

That he had not tested well as a youth so many years before had always put off his mother and doubtless had retarded his progress. Then, too, it had not helped that he had been thought to have limited Talent and had no ties to the Duarches and no close personal links to any of the high alectors, and had not had any until he had met Lystrana-and those were but indirect. Under the circumstances, he'd done extraordinary well.

Myrmidon officers with limited Talent and no connections seldom rose above majer, and never above colonel.

He glanced up as the four performers, all in the black and green of music, walked onto the dais and bowed to the Duarch before seating themselves, the hand-harpist on the far left, beside the five-string violist, and both across from the side-flautist and knee-bassist.

"They've been practicing this recital for a month," Lystrana said mildly.

That such practice took place after the musicians' normal duties was understood.

Three notes from the hand-harp, slow and deliberately struck, filled the hall. Then, the slow deep tones of the bass followed, joined by the viola.

Dainyl let the music wash over him, pushing aside the worries of the week.7 Standing easy in his maroon-and-gray uniform, Mykel waited on the platform to the west of the river towers for the coach from Faitel to Elcien.

South of the platform was the River Vedra itself, channeled between eternastone walls. Each river-wall held a causeway wide enough for four transport coaches abreast.

"Think it'll be late?" asked a Cadmian ranker several paces away.

"Never seen one late yet," replied his companion. "Alec-tors want the coaches to run when they're supposed to."

With an amused smile, Mykel shifted his weight from one boot to the other, then glanced to the western end of the platform, where a handful of alectors waited beyond the stone railing separating the two sections.

While the alectors never showed age, not any that he had seen, Mykel knew that the ones waiting were younger. Senior alectors traveled by pteridon, or through the mysteries of the Halls.

The captain snorted. Mysteries, indeed. For all their greater height and strength, the alectors were still mortals, although they had their secrets and guarded them zealously.

Low in the western sky, he could barely make out the half disc of the larger moon, Selena, more golden near the horizon. The green moon-Asterta, the one some called the warrior moon or the moon of misery-had set glasses earlier, well before dawn.

He turned, his eyes taking in the nearer of the two green towers, a cylinder with a pointed tip that soared more than a hundred yards into the silver-green sky. Between the two towers were the major piers for the boats and barges that traveled the river carrying everything-the steel pigs and dreamdust from Iron Stem, the wines from the Vyan Hills, and the grains and livestock from the fertile rolling plains between Krost and Borlan. All of it came down the Vedra to Faitel, where the iron was off-loaded for the artisans and engineers, and what was not off-loaded went first to Elcien, then south through the Bay of Ludel to Ludar.

Downstream and to the west of Faitel were the shipyards, and upstream and east of the center of the city were the ironworks and the golden-walled compounds of the engineers' and artisans' guilds. If Ludarcould be called the artistic heart of Corus, and Elcien the spirit and intelligence, then Faitel was where art and spirit were forged and almost everything of great value was fabricated-from the bronzed coaches pulled by the sandoxes to the great ships that had conquered the oceans.

Mykel's reveries were brought to a halt by the double chime of the bell that announced that the coach to Elcien was coming. He looked eastward as the sandoxes turned into the concourse on the north side of the platform. There were two-each more than four times the size of a draft horse-with even more massive shoulders, and scales that shimmered purplish blue. The deep-set eyes were golden brown ovals, with pupils blacker than a starless night. In the middle of the broad forehead was a single triangular scale a good ten times the size of the less distinct purplish scales that covered every span of the sandox. The sandoxes were harnessed to a modified cross-rig with wide black straps and leather-sheathed chains.

Behind the pair were the bronze-sheathed transport coaches, each nine yards long. The forward coach was split into two sections, the front compartment for alectors, with wider and well-cushioned seats, and a rear section with far less luxurious seating. The second coach contained a single compartment, all standard seating. The drivers' seat high on the front of the first coach had ample space for the two alectors who controlled the sandoxes and the coach, and was provided cover from sunlight and weather by curved bronzelike metallic roof sheet.

Just as the sandoxes and coaches slowed to a halt, there was a shout from the river side of the concourse platform. Mykel turned, as did the two women to his left, and the pair of Cadmian rankers to his right.

A man jumped onto the top of the stone railing of the western platform and leveled a weapon-an ancient crossbow-at the nearest alector. Before Mykel had taken more than a single step, the bearded figure had fired, and the quarrel slammed into the shoulder of the alector, spinning him half around. Before Mykel took a third step, the alector on the forward coach had lifted his light-knife. A bluish beam struck the bearded man, and his entire figure flared into blue-yellow flame. Within instants, a blackened body pitched off the railing.

Mykel's mouth opened as he realized the crossbow quarrel had bounced off the alector's shoulder. He had the feeling that the alector was in a fair amount of pain, but he couldn't have said why. Still, from such closerange, the bolt should have gone through the alector. Absently, he recalled what his father had said. Arrows bouncing off alectors didn't seem so far-fetched, after what he had just seen. But how did they do that? Was their skin that tough? Or were those shiny clothes special? Or both?

His lips quirked. He wasn't likely to find out. Not anytime soon.

The concourse bell rang rapidly, and Cadmians in the uniforms of the road patrols appeared from the station west of the concourse. Within moments, the charred figure had been lifted into a handcart and pushed away. The injured alector had vanished.

"Never seen anything like that," muttered one of the rankers beside Mykel.

"Maybe one of those Ancienteers," replied the other.

"Thought they just hid away in the peaks and stuff."

"Crazy folk, never know what they'll do."

Mykel agreed with that, especially about some of the strange cults that had appeared in the outlying lands of some regions, like the Iron Valleys, North Lustrea, Deforya, aad the higher mountains in the southern part of the Coast Range. He'd hadn't heard much about the Ancienteers, except as a group that worshipped the vanished ancients. His grandfather had once said that the true ancients were beautiful women with wings who were colder than ice. They didn't sound like anything Mykel wanted to worship.

The boarding bell rang, a quick triplet, and Mykel eased a silver from one of the slots on the inside of his belt before moving toward the steps down to the embarking area.

The two Cadmian road patrollers on the mounting steps scarcely looked at Mykel as he handed his silver to the attendant and stepped through the open door and into the coach. He settled into a window seat three rows back. As in all of the coach compartments, save the forward section for alectors, there were four narrow oak seats, two on each side of a center aisle. With the thin seat cushion, they were almost comfortable on a long journey. Almost.

Mykel noted an attractive woman in dark blue, hoping she would takethe seat beside him. Before he could offer, a squarish man wearing a brown tunic and matching boots eased into the seat. "Sorry, Captain, but there's not that much room."

"There never is," replied Mykel politely, guessing that the man was some sort of factor.

A single long chime sounded, and the attendant closed the coach door.

Mykel glanced around the coach. Most of the thirty-two seats were taken, although the attractive brunette was sitting alone. With the slightest jolt, the coach began to move. Before long, the sandoxes had the coach up to speed and coolish air flowed through the louvers forward and overhead.

With nearly three hours ahead of him for the seventy-odd-vingt journey, Mykel surveyed the river, taking in the barges being towed upstream by the steam tugs on the inner causeway. An ocean freighter-he could tell that because it did not have the sails of a coaster nor the narrower beam and shallower draft of a river craft-forged downstream.

Above the bridge flew the pennant of the Duarchy, two crossed scepters, both metallic blue, not quite identical, set in a sharp eight-pointed, brilliant green star.

"Strange business there on the platform," offered the man seated beside Mykel. "You ever see anything like that before?"

The captain turned from the window. "No. I suppose there's a first time for everything."

"I meant the arrow bouncing off the alector. I've seen crazies before."

He paused. "Makes you think. Maybe there are reasons we don't know why they're alectors... besides they're being big and tall." After another pause, he smiled. "I'm Floriset, crop factor."

"Mykel, captain, Fifteenth Cadmian."

"Wouldn't want your job these days. Everywhere you look, there's another bunch that thinks they can do things better than the Duarchs."

Floriset shook his head. "You seen much action against them?"

"In the north Westerhills against the Reillies last year."

"Tough, they said.""Not that tough. We didn't need to call in the Myrmidons, the way they did in Soupat." Mykel laughed, quickly asking, "How is your business?"

"Some days are good. Some aren't. Had a mild spring, with rain in most places, and a bit more rain through the summer. Good hot late summer and a dry early harvest Makes it hard."

"That sounds good," offered Mykel, "not bad."

'Too good. Bumper crops all over the place, especially in wheat corn.

That'll drive the prices down. Be hard on the farmers way to the east Might speculate in some land there." The factor laughed. "Just have to buy as much as I can and hope next year's weather's worse."

"Did the Reillies make things hard last year?"

"Hard on folks to the north, but I'd laid in more stocks, and when the prices went up after they burned the granaries in Harmony, I made a few extra silvers."

"More like a few hundred, I'd wager," suggested Mykel.

"A few." The factor grinned, but for a moment. "Works the other way at times, too. Couple years back, I'd figured that the short drought would last another year. Was wrong about that, and had to unload stocks as I could.

Storage charges woulda eaten me alive, otherwise. Took a loss of more than a half copper a bushel." He shook his head. "Like to have done that one over again."

"Life's like that," Mykel replied.

'It is indeed, but you can't help wishing."

Mykel nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. It would be a long ride, and he could use the rest.

8.

When Mykel finished the two-vingt walk from concourse platform at the river station to the gates of Cadmian headquarters, he was perspiring, and glad he'd taken no gear home with him. He could have taken a carriage for hire from the station, but he'd seen no point in' spending a silver, not on a pleasant day when he did not have to report until muster on the next morning.

The last quarter vingt-five hundred yards-before the open stone gates at the end of the stone-paved avenue was clear of dwellings, just an open hillside between the northern edge of the less than attractive town of Northa and the walls of the Cadmian headquarters. The compound was set at the base of the hills that rose northeast of the river and footed the Coast Range itself, with walls that ran almost a vingt on each side.