Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “And the women of Candar have disappointed you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of where you’ve been and where you’ve left.”

  “I think I’ll be heading to the hostel.” Wrynn turned, looked at the chandlery, then walked back toward her mount.

  Martenya watched silently, wondering just how long the stranger would remain in Southwind.

  II

  The sun was still above the horizon when Martenya walked through the door of the small cottage on the side lane that ran parallel to the main avenue, if a good hundred yards higher on the sloping ground to the north of the main part of the town. Still … she knew it wouldn’t be that long before twilight cloaked the hills to the north of Llysen.

  She couldn’t help thinking about the stranger as she removed her patroller’s belt.

  “Why are you so out of sorts?” The slender brunette wearing a splattered apron stood in the door from the kitchen, looking up to her taller partner.

  “Out of sorts?”

  “You didn’t say a word when you came in.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to deal with another one of those Recluce types. Thank the Legend that there aren’t that many of them.”

  “Dangergelders?” asked Paemina. “Isn’t that what they call them?”

  “I don’t much care what they call them. This one makes a hill cat defending her young seem sweet … except that she’s the kind of cat who’d likely eat her young.”

  “I can see that she made a good impression on you. Does she have any talents?”

  “She’s a blade and likely better than most. Recluce-trained, and she hates men. That’s the way it feels.”

  “It’s too bad she didn’t go to Kyphros. Or Sarronnyn.”

  “She did. She didn’t like either place. They didn’t pay her what she was worth, I gather. Or what she thought she was worth.”

  Paemina shook her head. “I don’t see that if she’s any good. Not with the Autarch. Or the Tyrant.”

  Martenya had the feeling that the exile was good with a blade … but she didn’t know. “Even the Autarch wants arms-trained women to work their way up. She and the Marshal aren’t much different in that.”

  “That’s because they believe in what works.” Paemina paused. “I fixed lemon scones to go with the leftover mutton and lace potatoes … and some greens. And Minaeya is napping right now. I don’t think that will last.”

  Martenya smiled, at the thought of both their daughter waking in the middle of dinner and the lemon scones.

  III

  Martenya didn’t see the stranger from Recluce on threeday, or fourday, and she half-wondered if Wrynn had headed out, although she questioned where else the Recluce exile could go that she found any more to her liking, since the stranger had apparently passed through most of the lands of Candar and found none to her liking. Only Delapra and possibly Jerans remained. Delapra was essentially under Hamor’s heavy thumb, and the Hamorians didn’t care much for free-spirited women. The Jeranyi still remained horse-nomads at heart, and Martenya had doubts that Wrynn wanted to spend most of her life in the saddle, any kind of saddle.

  Martenya had fiveday off and sixday as well. On sevenday she had the early shift, and it was some two glasses past dawn when she walked toward the women’s hostel. To her surprise, she saw the Recluce dangergelder on a ladder, replacing one of the second-story shutters. She waited until Wrynn finished and climbed down the ladder.

  The exile with a face more weathered than her years glared at the patroller.

  “I thought you were a blade, not a carpenter,” said Martenya mildly.

  “I’ve more than a few skills. The old shutter was rotten. So I crafted a new one. Eliendra got the wood. I did the rest. I don’t do slop and cleanup.”

  Martenya looked up at the shutter. To her untrained eyes, the new one, stained to match the old one, looked more finished than the older shutter. “What else can you do?”

  “Most anything that needs to be done.”

  “Do you prefer being a blade?”

  “There’s no doubt of my worth there. It’s hard to argue that I’m not worth my coins when I’ve disarmed, wounded, or … disabled someone.”

  Martenya had the feeling that Wrynn had almost said something else, but before she could reply, the other went on.

  “Besides, when you’re hired to protect someone or some place, that’s worth it. Isn’t that one reason you’re a patroller?”

  Martenya couldn’t argue that. Not directly. “It’s especially gratifying when you can protect people without drawing iron.”

  “That’s not always possible. Then what do you do?”

  “Act as quickly as practical with the least blood possible.”

  “Then you’re not so different as you think.” Wrynn turned and eased the heavy ladder away from the hostel wall, lowered it, and, after shifting her grip, walked away from Martenya, carrying the ladder as if it weighed no more than a light stick.

  “Not so different as you think?” murmured Martenya to herself. How could she not be different from the angry and hostile exile?

  Even so, those words worried at her for the rest of her shift, and she couldn’t put them aside. She was still thinking about them when she walked through the cottage door at close to fifth glass.

  “You’re a bit later than usual,” called Paemina, from where she stood by the kitchen table. “What happened?”

  “Nothing special.” Martenya unbuckled the patroller’s equipment belt with the twin blades and hung it on the special wall rack that Paemina had crafted for her, then walked into the kitchen. “Except that I ran into that dangergelder again.”

  “She’s still here?”

  “She’s doing work for Eliendra. Carpentry.”

  “Maybe she’ll find a place and stay.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something about her that goes against my grain.” Martenya shook her head.

  Paemina studied her partner for a moment, then glanced from Martenya to the cradle in the nook, carefully covered with wide-weave linen to allow air to circulate but to keep the mosquitoes and other insects from Minaeya, just barely two months old.

  “How is her rash?” asked Martenya.

  “The brinn anointment seems to be working.”

  “I can’t help but worry.” At Paemina’s slight frown, Martenya quickly added, “I know I haven’t said much … but I do worry. She’s still so tiny.”

  Paemina nodded. “She is. But she’s healthy.”

  “Were you that small?”

  “My mother said I was.”

  Neither mentioned whether Adonal had been that small as a child, necessary as he had been if they were to have a child. Martenya still wasn’t certain whether she felt relieved or sad that Paemina had been the one fortunate enough to conceive … or whether she ever wanted to try again, understanding as Adonal had been.

  Abruptly, Martenya saw, as if for the first time, the dark circles under her partner’s eyes. “Dear … you need to sit down. I can finish fixing dinner. You’ll have to feed her later.”

  “I can…” Paemina stopped. “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “Just put the stool where you can watch her.” Martenya moved to the table and picked up the knife.

  IV

  Another eightday passed before Martenya saw Wrynn again … once more outside the women’s hostel. The dangergelder was carrying out a large oblong of wood, a good yard and a half wide and half a yard high, and Martenya belatedly realized that the space over the main entry to the hostel that usually held the signboard was vacant, and the heavy wooden ladder was positioned against the wall next to the entry.

  As Wrynn set down the new signboard, leaning it against the old brick of the lower wall, Martenya studied it. The graceful letters were not just painted, but carved into the wood and then painted in black, standing out against the golden oak. The gleaming fin
ish of the signboard indicated that it had also been varnished to seal the wood and the letters.

  Martenya had to admit that the new signboard was a great improvement over the old one. “I like your signboard. It’s well-done.”

  “I don’t do anything that’s not workmanlike or better.” Before Martenya could reply, Wrynn added, “Don’t tell me that I’d fit in well in Southwind. Eliendra’s told me that a score of times already.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “Good.” Wrynn picked up the heavy signboard with one hand, hammer in the other, and climbed up the ladder.

  Martenya wasn’t sure how she managed it, but the exile produced a wooden bracket from somewhere and tapped it carefully until the signboard was in place.

  After that, Wrynn painstakingly fastened the signboard permanently in place, not by nailing it directly, but by using five more shaped wooden brackets, similar if not identical to the first, all of which she carefully nailed into position with the heavy hammer, leaving the signboard itself unmarked. Then she descended the ladder, nodded to Martenya, and carried the ladder and hammer around the side of the hostel.

  As Martenya turned and began to walk back up the street away from the women’s hostel, she couldn’t help but think about the exile and her unwillingness to accept praise or, apparently, to be satisfied with anything anywhere. At the same time, Martenya wondered if she was being fair to Wrynn, since she had no real idea about what the other woman had experienced, either in Recluce or elsewhere in Candar.

  V

  The following threeday morning, Martenya was about to set out for the patrol station when a patrol runner, a girl in the uniform white and blue, appeared at the door of their cottage. Martenya recognized the runner, but could not immediately recall her name.

  “Patroller Martenya?”

  “Yes?”

  “Patrol Captain Tyana requests that you not report until the fourth glass of the afternoon.”

  “Did she tell you to give me a reason?”

  “No, ser. She said she would explain when you came in.”

  “Tell the captain that I’ll be there.”

  The young runner nodded, then turned and trotted down the narrow hill lane.

  Martenya walked back into the cottage and looked at her partner. “Don’t bother with supper. The captain moved me to the evening shift. I don’t know why.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did.”

  “It might not be you,” replied Paemina softly.

  “I hope not.” Even so, Martenya wondered.

  She was still pondering what she might have done wrong when she walked into the patrol station a little before fourth glass. She didn’t have to wonder long because Captain Tyana crossed the receiving room and looked up at Martenya.

  “There’s a Hamorian trader and his guards staying at the Black Pony. That’s why I changed your shift.”

  “For a trader?”

  “For a Hamorian trader with ten armed guards. For a Hamorian who has been scornful of the Marshal. Loudly and in public.”

  “Are they already in the public room there?”

  Tyana nodded. “Nothing’s happened yet. Keep your round close to the inn. I’ll have Stacia cover the blocks to the north. When it gets dark, I’ll send Keirin to back you up.”

  Martenya nodded, wondering what else the captain knew that had her so concerned.

  “Just a feeling,” added Tyana, in response to the unvoiced question likely indicated by Martenya’s expression.

  “I’ll start there and spend a few moments talking to the servers.”

  “Sometimes that helps,” replied the captain.

  Martenya understood that Tyana felt the Hamorian trader’s presence wasn’t one of those times. “I’ll check frequently.”

  Tyana nodded.

  Less than a quarter glass later, Martenya walked toward the front entrance of the Black Pony. No one was near the alarm bell by the door, but she entered the inn cautiously, moving quietly through the doors and toward the public room.

  She stopped at the archway and surveyed the chamber, taking in the aged oak tables, chairs, and backless benches—and their occupants. Outside of two white-haired men and three women, the normally crowded public room was empty.

  Dehlya, the heavy-set proprietor, coming from the back hall, stepped up beside the patroller. “Hamorian bastards. Scared off most of the regulars and then left.”

  “Did they lift iron?” asked Martenya. “Or clubs?”

  “No. They might as well have, though.” She shook her head. “They said they’d be back.”

  “Do you think they will be?”

  “Who knows? They might be. Or they might have said that to keep everyone else away.”

  Either was possible, Martenya thought. Just to see if the trader and his guards might return soon, she talked to Dehlya for perhaps a fifth of a glass before leaving the inn.

  She saw no sign of the Hamorians on the main street as she walked south, but she also looked behind her frequently. The fact that the sidewalks were far quieter and markedly less crowded than usual in the late afternoon suggested that the Hamorians had been there not long before.

  Martenya continued to walk another three blocks before she turned and began to retrace her steps back toward the Black Pony, not her usual round, but she doubted there would be problems from the shops and dwellings on the side blocks and she was close enough to them that she could hear an alarm bell if any were rung.

  She was less than a block from the inn when she heard the frantic ringing of an alarm accompanied by a high-pitched yelling.

  “Help! The patrol!”

  Martenya increased her swift walk to a lope along the main street toward the Black Pony. When she reached the front of the inn, she saw a young server, barely more than a girl, who stood by the bell just outside the main entrance to the inn, holding a ripped blouse at the shoulder with one hand, the other on the stout post supporting the alarm bell and bronze mounting frame.

  “The Hamorians,” she gasped. “They … they…” She shuddered.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “They would have … Hurry! They’re after Dehlya.”

  Martenya moved swiftly through the half-open door and through the entry hall to the square arch leading into the public room. From the archway, she could see the stout proprietor using a stool to fend off a bearded man with a long blade, while three other guards on the other side of the public room laughed raucously. Drawing both her blades, she moved from the entry toward the Hamorian attacking Dehlya.

  Martenya sensed another figure entering the public room behind her and hoped it was Keirin or Stacia, but she had no time to look because one of the watching Hamorians yelled something and the bearded guard whirled and thrust the long blade toward the patroller.

  Martenya parried the blade effortlessly, catching sight, out of the corner of her eye, of the Hamorian guards closing in on a single figure. She pushed away that image and concentrated on the tall and muscular guard with the long blade who once more lunged toward her.

  At the last moment, she stepped to the side, twisting away from the long blade, then used the shortsword in her left hand, not to thrust or slash, but to bring the unsharpened section just below the hilt down on the back of the Hamorian’s wrist. The dull snap indicated that something had broken, and the big blade spun away. The Hamorian reached for the long dagger at his hip, then decided against it as Martenya’s left blade hovered under his chin.

  “On the floor, facedown … or you’re dead,” she snapped.

  Slowly, the wounded man dropped to the floor.

  “Hands and arms out!”

  Only when the guard was prone did Martenya look farther away than the area around her.

  The single figure on the other side of the public room now faced but a single Hamorian, and, with a movement so fast that Martenya didn’t believe it, separated the man from his blade, then turned to look at the stunned trader, his back against the wall. One man lay
on the floor, and another cradled an injured right arm.

  “Now … what was that you were saying about women?”

  Martenya didn’t know whether to smile or curse as she recognized both the voice and the face. She did neither, but kicked the blade she’d removed from the man who’d attacked her under the nearest table and walked over to the trader.

  “Patroller … is this how—”

  “Enough!” snapped Martenya. “You have one glass to leave Llysen. I saw enough. Your man attacked the proprietor, who didn’t even have a weapon.”

  “He said all women were sluts,” called Dehlya from several yards away. “He ripped poor Selica’s blouse open.”

  “You did all that,” said Martenya. “Your man drew steel after attacking a mere girl. He and you and your guards were looking for a fight. They got it. Now, get out.”

  “But…”

  “You were told that drawing blades except in self-defense was forbidden.”

  “Our honor was insulted.” The trader drew himself up. “They said we were cowards.”

  “Cowards with blades!” interjected Dehlya.

  “If the first way you seek to prove your honor is with cold iron,” declared Martenya, “then you had no honor to begin with. You have one glass.”

  “And then what if we don’t?”

  “You will leave, one way or another,” Martenya said quietly. “As ashes on the wind, or under your own power.”

  “That is not honorable.”

  “Do not talk of honor. You are a trader. Your only honor is to golds. Golds and silvers deserve no honor. One glass.”

  Martenya turned abruptly and slashed.

  A blade clunked on the wooden floor, and the guard who had tried to sneak up on her looked stupidly at the slash across the back of his hand, deep enough to have hit and broken bones, and the blood welling up across his flesh.

  “The next one who tries anything is dead.”

  “If they’re that fortunate.”

  The low words came from Wrynn.

  The trader swallowed.

  “One glass,” Martenya repeated. “Any blade that’s on the floor stays there.”

  The Hamorian merchant started to open his mouth, but shut it as he looked from Wrynn to Martenya.