Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Yes, ser.” Hryessa offered a smile that contained both understanding and sympathy.

  “Commander!” Ryba’s voice carried down the five levels of the stone stairs with ease.

  Saryn retraced her steps back up the tower. No sooner had she stepped into the small study than Ryba gestured for her to take the seat across the circular table from her. Saryn did, but did not speak, waiting to hear what Ryba had to say.

  “You know that Nylan has sent Dyliess a letter every year on her birthday?” Ryba’s words were not quite a question.

  “I had wondered when the first messages always came in the spring, and there was always one from the west, sometimes through Lornth, for you.”

  “They have to come from there. Nylan and Ayrlyn are living like hermits in some forest to the southwest, but there’s always a letter for Dyliess… and another one for me. One with information he thinks I’ll find useful.”

  Saryn did not comment.

  “It usually is,” Ryba continued. “The engineer has always known what is useful.”

  “Has Dyliess read the letters?” Saryn asked.

  “Yes. I’ve read them to her since before she could read. I make copies for her now. I’ve kept the originals in a book for her.” Ryba frowned. “The engineer is generally kind and thoughtful in his writing. He also is careful not to write anything he thinks will offend me.”

  “Dyliess doesn’t speak of him.”

  “I’ve told her not to, except to me, or to you, if she chooses. It’s better if everyone thinks of him as both mighty and departed for good, and not as a father who is human enough to write letters.” Ryba laughed, softly and bitterly. “If only once a year, long as those missives may be.”

  “She must know that he hasn’t forgotten her.”

  “That’s true.” Ryba glanced over her shoulder toward the window, still closed, but with the gray hangings pulled back to allow the morning sunlight to pour into the small chamber, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air.

  “Is there anything I should know, then?” asked Saryn. Ryba would not have mentioned the letters without a reason.

  “He wrote that our troubles to the west are not over, and that, without aid, Lady Zeldyan may have difficulty holding Lornth.”

  “She does provide a buffer,” Saryn temporized. “Do her difficulties lie with Lord Ildyrom’s son? The Jeranyi have always been a problem.”

  “That’s but one aspect of it. The Suthyans have reclaimed Rulyarth as well, and have imposed close-to-punitive tariffs on goods bound to Lornth.”

  “She’s being squeezed on both sides then. Do we have to do anything?”

  “Both young Deryll and the Suthyans would be far less to our liking as neighbors than is Lady Zeldyan. Still… we will have to see, after we deal with Arthanos and the Gallosians.”

  Saryn had the chilling sense that Ryba had already seen. “The Gallosians… and not the Suthyans?”

  “The Suthyans fight with golds… or use them, or the promise of golds, to get others to fight. We will have to face the Gallosians first. After we deal with Arthanos, you’ll be the one who goes to Lornth,” Ryba went on. “Whatever happens, I won’t send you to your death. That much, I do know.”

  Ryba was quite capable of lying—except that Saryn would have detected it, and Ryba knew that. Still, from what Saryn had seen in the under-space battles with the demon towers, what she’d felt on the neuronet, and what she’d experienced and observed in the ten years since the angels had come to the Roof of the World, some forms of living might well be worse than death, not that she wished to experience either. But why would she mention that she would not send me to my death?

  “Would you like to question the Gallosian now?” Saryn asked quietly.

  “I’ll do it this afternoon in the common room before the eve ning meal, with at least a squad of guards present… and you, of course, and either Istril or Siret, whoever happens to be more available.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “That will be all.”

  Saryn nodded, then turned and made her way back down the cold stone steps of Tower Black, wondering, as always, just what Ryba had foreseen and exactly why she intended to send Saryn to Lornth.

  XIV

  Just past midafternoon, Saryn sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the hearth in the main-floor great room. To her right was Llyselle, and to her left sat Murkassa.

  “…the scouts reported that half the Suthyan party took the road to Lornth and that the trader was with that group,” Llyselle said. “The others took the northern road, the one to Middlevale, which avoids most of the Lornian lands on the way to Rulyarth and Armat.”

  “The trader is traveling through Lornth… or part of it. Have you told the Marshal?”

  “No, ser. We just got word.”

  “I’ll tell her, then, after we finish. What else did they discover?”

  “Nothing else about the Suthyans. We’ll need to send a team to repair some of the bridges…”

  After Llyselle finished her report, Saryn walked up the stone steps to Ryba’s study.

  Ryba turned from where she stood at the window. “What else is it, Saryn? More about the Gallosian?”

  “No, ser. We may have another problem. Half the Suthyans, and the high trader, but not Suhartyn, took the road to Lornth.”

  The Marshal nodded, almost as if she already knew. “That’s not surprising. Trader Baorl will try to discover any weaknesses, while ostensibly trading, and will be able to give the Suthyan Council a more current report on Lornth’s strengths and weaknesses. Doubtless, he will also spread untruths about Westwind.”

  “That won’t make matters any easier for me… if you’re still planning on sending me.”

  “I am, especially after what you just encountered. We’ll talk about that later.”

  Saryn could sense that Ryba didn’t want to say more, and wouldn’t. She also knew that pressing the Marshal would only make matters worse. “Yes, ser.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Saryn.” With those words, Ryba turned back to look out the window.

  Saryn made her way down the steps, then to the smithy to see how much progress had been made on blades.

  Later, just about a glass before the eve ning meal, Huldran and Ydrall brought Dealdron up from the lower level, the same way all guards with injured legs were carried, in a basket seat suspended from a wooden yoke, each end of the yoke borne by one of the two smiths. They set him on a bench facing the cold hearth… and Ryba. Saryn stood on the right side of the wooden chair where Ryba sat, with Siret on the left.

  Dealdron’s eyes took in the trio one after the other—the arms-commander with her reddish golden brown hair, the black-haired and stern-featured Marshal, in silver-gray and black, and the silver-haired healer. The Marshal surveyed the wounded man without speaking.

  After a momentary hesitation, the Gallosian bent forward, held the position for a moment, then straightened, looking to Ryba, then to Siret, and finally to Saryn. “Sers… most honored Angel and Marshal, I would offer more respect, but I cannot rise or bow without falling.”

  “That is obvious.” Ryba’s voice was cool. “‘Marshal’ or ‘ser’ will do.”

  Dealdron inclined his head. “Yes, Marshal.”

  “What did you do before you became an armsman in Gallos?”

  “Ser… I was not an armsman. I was an assistant ostler to the Prefect’s Cavalry.”

  “Before that?”

  “My father is a plasterer. I was working as his apprentice, but… times were hard, and my older brother, he was needed more, and I had helped at the local stable.”

  “Why were you with the armsmen who were pretending to be brigands?”

  “The majer sent me because they needed someone to take care of the horses. He did not want to use armsmen as ostlers.”

  “Did anyone say that they might have to fight the guards of Westwind?”

  “Ah…” Again, Ryba waited. “The undercaptain said that, if
they came across any, they would take great plea sure in killing them. He also said that was not the main task. He said we were to rob and frighten away all the travelers and to kill those who would not be frightened.”

  “Why did you allow the women travelers from Neltos to be ravaged and killed?”

  “I had no way to stop it, ser, only a belt dagger.”

  “Did you know that was what the undercaptain had in mind?”

  “No, ser. Not until he said… that he didn’t care what happened to them.” Saryn caught sight of several nods among the guards, nods not of approval, but ac knowledg ment of the attitude of the late undercaptain. “You had no idea that he felt that way?” Ryba looked at the Gallosian impassively, waiting. Finally, Dealdron spoke, slowly. “I had heard that he was… hard…

  on women, but I never heard that he had injured one.”

  “Beyond a slap or a bruise or two, you mean?” Faint irony tinged Ryba’s words. “I did not know he would kill or order women to be… abused.”

  “Did you think he might?”

  “I did not know, ser. I had only taken care of the mounts before the majer sent me with the undercaptain.”

  “I asked what you thought.”

  “I did not think about it, ser. Not until I saw what was happening.” Saryn could sense that Dealdron truly believed that, and that the young man truly had not understood the situation with the travelers until he believed he could do nothing. Her eyes took in Istril, who slipped into the chamber and along the wall until she was some five yards back from the Marshal.

  Although Ryba had to have seen Istril, her expression did not change as she asked Dealdron, “You expect me to believe that you encountered no other travelers until you came across that group?”

  “We saw tracks, but they hid in the woods or in other places before we could see where they had gone. The undercaptain was not going to split up the squad chasing peasants through the trees. He thought someone might ambush us.”

  “You were whipped. How did that happen?”

  “We had ridden hard the first days out from Fenard. I told the under-captain that he was being hard on the horses and that they would not carry us well if he kept pressing them. He laughed. He had his men tie me to a tree, and he whipped me.”

  “You stood up for horses… and not for women?”

  “Ser… the first time I crossed the undercaptain, I was whipped. I did not think I would have lasted so long as the travelers if I had said anything.”

  “So very courageous of you.”

  “Courage is useless when you are dead, ser. I could not have helped them.”

  True as that was, Saryn had doubts as to whether Ryba would see it that way.

  Ryba looked to Siret. The healer nodded.

  “How did your leg get broken?”

  “I was trying to calm the horses after the attack. I was in the wrong place. Everyone was dying, and I crawled to a tree. I thought I might climb it, but the branches were too high.”

  “How do you think other Gallosians would fare against the guards?”

  “Most would not, I think. The Prefect’s Company would do best. They would lose, but they would kill many of your guards.”

  “Is there any other company that good?”

  “Lord Arthanos is training two special companies. That is what I have heard some say.”

  “What do you know about Lord Arthanos?”

  “I have only seen him. I have not tended his mounts. He has never spoken to me. I have never handled the mounts of those companies he has commanded.”

  “A cautious reply. What have you heard about him?”

  “He is brave and capable with both blade and bow. His voice can be heard above men and horses. He does not accept failure. He does not like excuses. He is said to be fair… mostly.”

  “When is he not fair?” pressed Ryba.

  “I have only heard—”

  “When?” The single word was like a shaft of ice.

  Dealdron swallowed. “He is fond of wine, ser.”

  “And he is less than fair when he has had too much?”

  “That is what is said. I do not know that from what I have seen.”

  “There seems to be a great deal you have not seen,” observed Ryba.

  “I have heard that angels can tell when a man does not speak the truth. I would not wish to say what I do not know.”

  Ryba glanced to Siret, who nodded once more.

  “How many men does he have in arms?”

  “It is said that he will have ninety companies…”

  “Who are the best captains in the Prefect’s forces…

  “How many companies are ready to fight…

  “How many archers…”

  Ryba’s questions seemed endless, but the Marshal took less than a full glass before she stopped and looked squarely at Dealdron. “You may remain here in Westwind for now. Once you are healed, then we will talk again, and we will see what sort of man you are.” Ryba turned to Saryn. “Have him eat with the junior guards but at the lower end of the table.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Ryba lowered her voice, and Saryn bent forward to catch the words. “Have Duessya talk to him about horses. And have Siret talk to him about building. See what they think.” Ryba turned from Saryn, stood, then said to the assembled guards, “I thought you should hear what Dealdron had to say. Please share what you learned with those who were not here.” In the silence that followed, her eyes ran across the group. For the briefest moment, her gaze stopped at Istril, who stood at the side of the chamber behind the guards. Istril met Ryba’s eyes without turning away. Neither spoke.

  Then Ryba smiled pleasantly and strode between the tables to the back of the chamber and out into the foyer, to return to her study until the last seating for the eve ning meal.

  Saryn waited until the Marshal was well clear of the chamber before she spoke. “You’re dismissed to your regular duties if you have any at the moment.”

  As the guards rose, Huldran looked to Saryn.

  “Move him to the table where he’ll sit. He can wait up here for half a glass.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Saryn watched as the two smiths picked up the Gallosian. She could sense the pain from him as they lifted him under each arm and carried him to the end of the table farthest from the hearth, not that it made any difference with no fire. Then she walked toward Istril.

  The healer said nothing until Saryn stopped less than a yard away. “She knows you’re trying to get around her.” Istril’s words were barely a murmur.

  “She always knows,” replied Saryn. “That’s why she’s the Marshal.” What she didn’t voice were the questions that rose in her thoughts: Was knowing always enough? And how much did Ryba’s knowing restrict what she would try or accept?

  XV

  Right after morning muster on the causeway outside Tower Black, Saryn hurried up the stone road to the smithy. While the starflowers at the edge of the fields were almost in full bloom, before long they would be lost in the grasses, leaving only the tall and individual stalks of the bloodflowers in easy sight. Behind Saryn, the junior guards moved to the lower exercise field and took their positions for the morning arms drills. Even the handful of older women who would never be guards took part in the basic drills, both for reasons of fitness and in case of undetected marauders, or the white demons forbid, an attack on Westwind itself.

  Saryn pushed aside that thought as she reached the smithy.

  The forges were hot enough already that the building was more than comfortably warm when Saryn stepped under the stone lintel of the entry door. Huldran had just set down her hammer as Ydrall returned something to the forge to reheat.

  “How is the bow project coming?” asked Saryn.

  “We’ve tested the new bow against the composite ones,” offered Huldran.

  “And?”

  “Why don’t you go see? Falynna just left with the second one to try it out at the range.”

  Sa
ryn could sense a certain satisfaction from the smith. Was the horn bow just somewhat better than the short yew bows, or was it equal to the composite bows Nylan had forged? Or equal to a long yew bow? Or somewhere in between? “You’re pleased.”

  “I’m hopeful,” replied Huldran. “It was more work than we thought, but Falynna figured it out.”

  Saryn managed not to frown. They didn’t need weapons that took forever to forge or fabricate. “That sounds like a lot of effort for just one bow.”

  Huldran shook her head. “If it works, it won’t be that hard to produce a goodly number of bows each year. Figuring out how to do it was the problem.”

  “Let’s hope it works out.” Saryn turned, walking swiftly out of the smithy and continuing up the road. A narrow gully was forming on the left side of the road, caused by snowmelt runoff. The junior guards would have to build up the outside edge of the runoff channel. Some hundred yards uphill from the smithy, Saryn followed the narrow stone path westward until she reached the archery range. A sandy-haired guard stood at the edge of the range.

  “I thought you were following me,” said Falynna, a stocky and muscular guard whose head barely reached to Saryn’s shoulder. “So I waited.”

  “That’s the bow?” Saryn studied the double-curved weapon.

  “That it is, Commander. And a sweet weapon she is, almost as good as the mage-made weapons, and better for us, I think, because we can make more like her.”

  “How quickly?”

  “That’s the one problem. This one took over a year. We can get enough horn and sinew for fifty to a hundred every year, but the setting time should be almost a year.”

  Saryn winced. More bows next year wouldn’t help deal with Arthanos now. Still… a number of good bows would make a big difference over time. “So we could equip all the guards in the next four or five years.”

  “I would think so.” Falynna extended the already-strung bow. “Would you like to try?”

  “No, thank you. You’re far better with the bow.”

  “Then we’ll see.” Falynna gestured uphill toward the figure made of twisted branches in the form of a mounted armsman. The upper part was securely fitted with mail breastplate and helmet. She lifted the bow, nocked the shaft, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion.