“If you’d join me, Saryn? I do have some brandy up in the study.”
“Thank you. I could use that.”
There was no beer at Westwind, and what wine there was came from the wild grapes and other fruits less than suitable for eating. The vintage, if it could be called that, was tolerable, but the quantity was definitely limited. While they could have traded for wine or beer, other goods were far more necessary, and only occasionally did a trader throw in some beverage as a sweetener. That was doubtless how Ryba had gotten the brandy.
“I thought you might.”
As Ryba turned away and started up the stone steps, Saryn was again struck by the darkness behind those green eyes, much more than by the circles under them. So often had she heard Ryba moving around in the night that she no longer wondered whether the Marshal slept—only how she survived on so little sleep.
As they passed the levels of the tower, Saryn caught murmurs of conversations, all low.
“…there they go again…”
“… commander’s not been back much more ’n a glass…”
“…hush there, little one…”
“…sore all over… guard captain likes seeing me black-and-blue…”
Saryn smiled briefly at the last. In her first year at the institute, even with all the martial arts she’d studied as a youngster—and the first year on the Roof of the World—she’d felt that way all the time.
As Saryn stepped through the narrow doorway at the top of the tower stairs, Ryba said, “Please close the door, if you would.”
Saryn did so, then turned.
The small study held but a circular table, four chairs, and a wall chest. A narrow door—closed—led to a sleeping chamber. The single window was covered by a heavy gray woolen hanging. The only light was provided by a small oil lamp in a brass wall sconce, a reminder to Saryn that for all of her other talents, Ryba did not possess nightsight, or chose not to let anyone know if she did. With Ryba, Saryn was never sure, but cultivating a certain uncertain mystery was just one of the ways the Marshal exercised power—that and absolute ability with weapons.
Ryba lifted a small cylindrical bottle and poured a brownish amber liquid into two small crystal goblets, then took one of the four straight-backed chairs around the small round table. “The goblets are from an officer’s saddlebags that survived the Lornian attack. I seldom use them.”
Ryba’s use of both brandy and goblets worried Saryn as she took the chair across from the Marshal. Ryba lifted her small goblet, waiting for Saryn to do the same.
Saryn raised hers to meet Ryba’s, then waited just slightly to take a sip of the brandy. Even the slightest swallow warmed its way down her throat, and she placed the goblet on the plain polished and dark-oiled pine surface of the table.
Ryba set her goblet down, and asked, “Why did you bring that arms-man back? You should have killed him with the others.”
“I thought it was the thing to do.”
“You go on feelings more than you admit, don’t you?”
“Sometimes that’s all you have to go on,” replied Saryn.
Since none of second squad had talked directly to Ryba, the Marshal had either overheard the others when they ate, or she’d seen Dealdron in one of her glimpses of what would be. There was little point in asking how Ryba had learned. “Let me tell you what happened.”
“Go ahead.” Ryba fingered her goblet but did not lift it.
“We ran across a family—two families—that had been slaughtered by brigands—except for one daughter who had escaped into the woods…”
Saryn proceeded with a factual detailing of all that had happened, ending with, “…and we brought back the girl, and we did end up with fourteen additional mounts, as well as supplies, weapons, and coins.”
“What were your casualties?” Ryba took the smallest sip of her brandy.
“We lost Gerlya to a wild cast of a battle-ax. Suansa’s arm was shattered, but Istril thinks it can be healed. It will take a good year before she can use it well, though. Three other guards took minor slashes.”
“One in twenty, Commander. You know that’s not good. Even for twenty-one of theirs. The working standard is one to fifty. It is early in the year, but…”
Saryn had heard those words often enough, and she understood the mathematics as well as Ryba. They were literally the margin for survival. The bows helped, in small engagements, because of their range and power, so long as the guards could use the trees and the terrain, but that would change if Arthanos sent an army, because it would include companies of archers who would just turn the sky black with shafts. Archery accuracy mattered more in small engagements, but mattered far less against an enemy who could launch enough shafts that arrows fell like rain.
“What about the one Gallosian you brought back? You still haven’t addressed why he was worth saving… except saying your feelings told you to. With you, I’m sure it wasn’t because of his looks. Or did you even have another reason?”
Inside, Saryn couldn’t help bridling at Ryba’s words, but she replied evenly, “First, I wanted to see if we could find out more from him, especially if you questioned him personally. Second, he didn’t take part in the actual killings or the assaults on the women. He didn’t have anything to do with any of it, except holding the horses. His back is scarred from whipping.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll end up just like all the others on this world. We don’t need men like that.”
“What sort do we need?” asked Saryn quietly.
“That’s my decision, not yours.”
“I can’t carry out your decisions, Ryba, if I don’t know what standards you have in mind. You’ve as much as admitted that we do need more men here. With that leg of his, he can’t do much harm right now. Istril and Siret and you should be able to tell whether he meets your standards before he’s well enough to cause trouble—assuming he’s that type. I don’t think he is, but I’ll leave that judgment up to others.”
“You’re so accommodating, Saryn.”
And where men are concerned, you’re impossible. “I do my best for you and for Westwind. You should know that by now.”
“I know that you do what you think is best. That is not necessarily what is best.”
“Not having at least a number of men who are acceptable here at Westwind is not good. We all know that. So do you.”
“That is not so critical now. Arthanos is.”
“You’re right,” Saryn said carefully. “The problem is that, if we wait until the problem of men is critical, it will be too late to do anything about it.” She did not take another sip of the brandy.
“Then… Dealdron is your responsibility.”
“You still should question him,” Saryn replied. “You’ll doubtless discover more than I did, and he needs to know just how intimidating you can be.”
“I think I can manage that,” Ryba said, her tone so dry it was cutting.
Saryn inclined her head politely, then lifted the brandy goblet and sipped. “This is good.”
“It is. Did you know that, while you were gone, Dyliess managed to hit the center of the swinging targets from seventy yards?”
“She takes after you…”
“She has some of my better traits, and some of his, but she’s far more practical than her father…”
Saryn smiled, but did not relax, as Ryba continued.
XIII
After breakfast and the morning muster on the causeway outside Tower Black, where duties were handed out for the day, Saryn headed back into the tower to meet with Istril but found Istril coming up the steps from the lower level.
The healer smiled. “Suansa’s doing well, and the other three are fine.”
“Is the girl all right?”
“Adiara’s healthy. She needs to eat more, and she’s scared of her own shadow. The trio have taken her under their collective wings for now.”
“That’s good.” Good for her, and for Westwind. “How is the Gallosi
an’s leg?”
“It wasn’t badly mangled, not for that kind of injury. The bone end didn’t break through. The splint repositioned it, and he’ll heal. A couple of the whip wounds had chaos in them. Not bad, and I took care of that.” Istril paused. “You scared him worse than the broken leg.”
“Me? All I did was tell Murkassa not to kill him.”
“Oh? He saw you kill three men, then ride down another and bring him back dead. I did tell him that was what you did—and that you were the one who taught all the others to fight. He seemed to need that.”
“Why?” Saryn snorted. “So his fragile male ego wasn’t shattered by seeing his comrades slaughtered? Besides, Ryba designed the training, and you have as much to do with it as I do.”
“Maybe at first. Not now. You know I’m limited to teaching blade skills for defense.”
“Those are the most important,” Saryn pointed out.
“You’re kind to say that.”
“Did the Gallosian say anything about Karthanos or his son? Or anything else?”
“No, ser. He did ask why we bothered to save him. I told him that was because he hadn’t taken part directly in the massacres. He asked how I knew. I just told him the truth—that you knew when someone lied.”
“So do you.”
“He was more interested in what you thought.”
Saryn shook her head. “I need to talk to him more before Ryba does.”
“You got her to agree not to kill him?”
“So long as he behaves himself. If he doesn’t, it’s my responsibility.”
“Will you tell him that?”
“Only that his life depends on his good behavior.” Saryn nodded and headed down the stone steps.
She found Dealdron propped up on a narrow bed in the lower level of the tower—in what Saryn called sickbay, a term meaningless for all the local-born guards—who comprised most of those at Westwind. While his face was pale, and she could sense the chaos around the broken bones, she could also recognize that he was what she might have called passably handsome. That might cause problems, especially after her promise to Ryba.
“How are you feeling?” Saryn shifted from Temple into Old Rationalist.
“Better than if I were not feeling.” Dealdron’s words bore a different cadence than did those of the Lornians or those who lived west of the Roof of the World. The Gallosians and the Lornians didn’t speak different languages so much as differing dialects, suggesting that their common origin wasn’t that far back, not as languages went. “What will you do with me?”
“That depends on you. If you’re well-mannered and prove yourself useful, you might have a long, healthy life here. If you don’t, then you won’t have much time to worry about it.”
The young man nodded slowly. “The healer said that you are the arms-commander for all of Westwind. You rode out on patrol with but twenty… blades.”
“Even the Marshal rides with patrols.” Not that often in recent years, but she still does. “Shouldn’t someone who commands others be willing to do all that she orders them to do?”
“Rulers… most rulers… do not ride… not in the fore…”
“We aren’t most people.” Saryn decided to change the subject. “You know horses. What else do you know?”
“Some things.”
“What things?”
“My father was a plasterer. I can do that.”
“Can you make the plaster?”
“Of course.” Dealdron’s tone suggested that making plaster was elementary. “If you have a kiln.”
“We fire pottery.”
“That is too hot.”
That meant that they could build a plaster kiln. “Could you make plaster here on the Roof of the World?”
“Is there limestone here?”
“We haven’t looked,” Saryn admitted.
“There is limestone in many places.”
“Could you find it?”
Dealdron glanced down at his splinted leg.
“It will heal, and you will walk as you did,” Saryn replied to his unspoken question.
“Then if limestone is here, I will find it.”
“What else can you do?”
“A man can only do so much.”
“Whereas women can do many things,” replied Saryn ironically, “and do them well without having to talk about it.”
Dealdron merely looked bewildered, as if Saryn had replied in Temple or another language foreign to him.
“Who was your undercaptain?”
“Flassyn. He came from Subas.”
“What did he say the squad was supposed to do?”
Dealdron’s eyes moved ever so slightly so that he was not quite looking at Saryn, but not obviously avoiding her, before he spoke. “He said nothing until we had ridden out two days from Fenard. Then he said that they had to kill as many travelers as they could to prove the angels could not keep the Westhorns safe.”
“Did he give orders to violate the women?”
Dealdron moistened his lips. Finally, he looked straight at Saryn. “No, ser. It was not like that. He said… he didn’t much care what happened to them so long as they ended up dead.”
“What did you think about that?”
“I did not like it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dealdron looked directly at Saryn. “The eightday before we left Fenard, I said that they were riding the horses too hard. I got whipped for speaking out. Some armsmen agreed, but the undercaptain said I wasn’t ever to question him. So he whipped me… and put salt on my back.”
Saryn sensed the truth in the words. “You won’t get whipped here.”
“You will just kill me if I do not obey. Is that not so?”
“Not quite. If… if you have a good reason, then we’ll listen. If you’re being willful or stubborn… that’s another question.”
“Another inquiry?” The puzzled look appeared once more on Dealdron’s face.
Saryn almost smiled. Some idioms didn’t translate into Old Rat. “Another matter. How many armsmen is Lord Arthanos mustering to bring against us?”
“I cannot say, ser. He has raised ten new companies since the fall…”
Ten new companies? A thousand more armsmen?
When Saryn finally finished interrogating Dealdron, she left and crossed the lower level to the base of the stone steps, where she paused, dissatisfied in a vague way that she could not identify. Finally, she made her way up to the main level.
Hryessa was waiting for her in the entry foyer of Tower Black. “Commander? The day before yesterday, while you and second squad were gone, Murgos… he’s the sometime trader from Rohrn… he brought these missives for the Marshal.” Hryessa handed the three to Saryn.
Saryn recognized the script on two. One was addressed to “Ryba, Marshal of Westwind,” and the second was addressed to “Dyliess, in care of the Marshal of Westwind.” The third bore only the words “The Marshal.”
“They arrived two days ago?”
“Yes, ser.”
“You didn’t want to take them up to her?” Saryn smiled wryly.
“No, ser. I know better when those two arrive. I knew you would be back before long.”
Knowing the chill that Ryba could project—and her anger—Saryn could understand the guard captain’s reluctance either to deliver the missives or merely to leave them for Ryba. “Wait here for me.”
With the three heavy sealed missives in her hand, Saryn walked up the stone steps past the now-empty spaces on the upper levels and the area that had once been an arms practice area during the winter until too many bodies had filled the tower. As she neared the top level, she called, “Marshal… I have some missives for you.”
“The door is open.” Ryba’s words were cool.
Saryn climbed the last three steps, aware that she was breathing a little heavily. She wasn’t in the condition she should have been, or would be later in the spring. Then she stepped through the open doorwa
y and set all three sealed missives on the table, directly before Ryba, who sat with her back to the window.
“These didn’t come today.”
“They came while I was gone. They were waiting for me to give to you.”
“They all fear to hand me anything from him.”
“Do you blame them?”
“No.” Ryba’s green eyes fixed on Saryn. “If you would wait below until I read these.”
“Yes, ser.”
“While you’re waiting, I’d also like you to consider another problem. Too much of the guards’ business is being handled in the local tongue. We need to keep Temple the language of the guards. I’ve asked Istril to think on this as well. The young ones must speak Temple first.” Ryba held up a hand. “Don’t say a word. You’ve insisted that the guard captains give commands in Temple, and the guards all know those. That’s not enough. We need to work in schooling for the children and the new guards. Schooling in Temple.”
Saryn inclined her head, turned, and made her way out back down to the main level.
“That was quick,” said Hryessa.
Her words were in the degraded form of Old Rationalist that the locals used, Saryn noted. “She asked me to wait until she read the messages.”
“So fortunate you should be.”
“She also wants us to use Temple for everything and teach it to the young ones.”
Hryessa frowned. “Only you angels know it well.”
“You speak it, and it might give us an advantage in battle and in trading, especially in years to come when all the young ones know it.”
The guard captain shrugged. “As the Marshal wills.”
Always as Ryba wills. Nylan understood that early. Yet what could those like Llyselle, Istril, and Siret do? They were full-blooded Sybrans, and trying to live in the hot lowlands would have been a slow death sentence. And the women who had fled to Westwind would suffer the same fate as those slaughtered by the false brigands. Even as a half-Sybran, Saryn had found the lowlands oppressive the few times she’d visited Lornth.
After a moment, Saryn smiled at Hryessa. “You might as well get on with your duties.”
Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce) Page 8