For Aksel Tarselein, trainer of cadets, had already been a deeply troubled man when Alberich knew him. Someone—another young, highborn officer—had once described him, with a sneer, as “one of the old school,” as if being a man of honor and integrity, whose word was seldom given and always kept, was somehow unfashionable and old-fashioned. And the shifts to which the Son of the Sun had fallen by the time Alberich had been commissioned had left Aksel profoundly disturbed. He was glad, he had confessed to the younger Alberich when the two of them had shared a farewell flask on the night of Alberich’s commission, that he was no longer in a position where he found himself forced to obey orders which went against his conscience. “And it is a harder world today,” he had said sadly, staring at the last few drops in the bottom of his flagon. “You may discover that you have to stop thinking—or stop obeying. I hope that the Sunlord will guide you, young one.”

He had said no more on the subject, but Alberich knew which path he had taken, though not without qualms, and not without remorse.

I stopped thinking, at least until Kantor came to me…

Just as he knew that Aksel had not stopped thinking. That was not Aksel’s way. But as long as Aksel remained a Weaponsmaster to cadets, he would never be given an order that forced him to disobey either. Aksel held fast to his own honor only by making sure he was in a place where he would not have to sacrifice it.

Which of them had been given the easier path? Was it better to obey and not think, or think and try to ignore and be glad you, personally, didn’t have to disobey?

“Possible, it is,” he said, very slowly, “that there is a man. But possible it is not, directly to approach him. Friends he keeps, in the Mercenary Guild. There it is you must go. Speak with you he may, deny you he may.” Alberich shrugged. “I cannot say; his own decision, he must make.”

“Fair enough. And we’ve got enough friendly contacts with the Guild to ferret out whoever knows him,” Dethor said, nodding agreement. “His name?”

“Aksel Tarselein. Weaponsmaster to the Sunsguard Cadets.” Once again, Dethor and Talamir exchanged a look, this time a startled one.

Should he add something from himself, so that Aksel knew who had revealed him?

:Do you think your name would make Aksel change his mind?: Kantor asked.

:It might…: The now-familiar sickness rose in him again.

:And would you want it to?: Kantor continued. :Or would you rather—: