Arms-Commander (12 page)

When Saryn walked toward the arms practice field on oneday, she saw Dealdron standing at the back of the least experienced guards, his crutches laid on the hard ground beside him. Saryn frowned, wondering how he could do even the upper-body exercises without losing his balance. Then she saw a tripodal frame that the Gallosian had strapped to his leg at midthigh. He couldn't move much that way, and if he did, the movement was bound to be painful. Still, the frame did allow him to work on some of the exercises without losing his balance.

Saryn couldn't help but admire the young man's determination. Once she reached the field, she slipped into the exercise formation on the side closest to the road. She'd run through three exercises when Ryba appeared and joined in, effortlessly matching Saryn, movement for movement. Saryn found it hard to believe, again, that Ryba was ten years older than she was.

Once the group warm-up was over, Ryba turned to Saryn. “I need to spar.”

“I could use a round or two,” admitted Saryn.

“How about left-handed?” asked Ryba, producing a pair of weighted wands.

That was fine with Saryn. For years, when she sparred with anyone besides Ryba, she used her left hand and worked mainly on technique and how to anticipate moves from the slightest indications. Even so, she never sparred against the Marshal with real blades, even blunted ones. The killer instinct of an ancient Sybran warrior-queen was all too strong in Ryba.

Saryn took one of the wands, then stepped back.

A number of the older guards stopped to watch. The juniors weren't allowed that choice, and Siret broke them into instructional groups where—also with wands—they were drilled in basic skills.

Ryba took her position, then waited. So did Saryn, knowing that Ryba was willing to wait to see what her opponent would do first. After several moments, Saryn flicked the wand just a touch, and Ryba moved to the right. Saryn slipped the thrust that followed, but had to dart sideways to avoid the counter. She moved in quickly, so that Ryba had to circle away.

As always in sparring between the two, there were few even grazing blows, no matter what either attempted, because both had seen and survived so much and because each reacted so quickly. In the end, after both were sweating and breathing heavily, Ryba stepped back.

As Saryn did the same and blotted her forehead with her forearm, she saw Dealdron standing to one side, from where he had clearly been watching. Beside him Aemra had just finished telling Dealdron something.

Saryn looked directly at Dealdron, but the young man quickly looked away.

“You've been practicing. Left-handed, I mean,” observed Ryba. “Walk with me.” Ryba turned toward the road, heading up toward the smithy.

Saryn gestured to Llyselle, indicating she was leaving. The senior guard captain nodded. Saryn hurried to catch up to the longer-legged Marshal.

Ryba said nothing until the two were well out of earshot of the other guards. “It's time for you to leave for Lornth. Immediately.”

“Why now?” Saryn recalled her sole other visit to Lornth, the large town that was effectively the capital of what amounted to a city-state, not even truly a nation. While its borders were not surveyed down to the nearest kay, the area controlled by Lady Zeldyan as regent ranged some seven hundred kays north to south and six hundred east to west. “Control” was a relative term because allegiance was often token in places distant from Lornth. Then, with the loss of the port of Rulyarth and the surrounding area several years before, control of lands some two hundred kays by three hundred had shifted back to Suthyan rule.

“We're going to need more saltpeter and sulfur, and there's nowhere else to get them. I don't like it any better than you will,” replied the Marshal.

“We can't forge enough firearms, even if we could keep the white wizards from exploding the powder.”

“Leave the weapons development to me. You're the only one with enough seniority and experience who can also survive the spring and summer heat down there.”

“That may be, but what do I have to offer them in return?” Saryn asked.

“The Suthyans gave us that. They don't want us to trade with Lornth. You point out that we'd prefer to be on good terms with our immediate neighbors and that we're not exactly enamored of the Suthyan approach to dealing with women in power—”

“I can only mention that to Zeldyan personally. Her father won't take that well, nor her cousin Kelthyn.”

“Especially Kelthyn. Young as he is for a regent, he holds the old attitudes.”

“He's a tool of the older lords.”

“Tools can be used by others than those who created them,” Ryba pointed out.

That may be, but discovering how can be costly.
Saryn only said, “That's sometimes possible.”

“You'll find a way.”

What ever the cost, but we never speak of that.

“Just remember this. Everyone is a captive of the social structures of their past. They believe that men and women have different places in society, as do foreigners. Call it ‘place-ism,' if you will. All the locals in Candar, at least all those we've encountered, believe that a woman's place is childbearing and at the hearth. Only if her husband or consort is dead or notoriously weak can she be accepted in a position of power and authority, and only as an exception for a short period of time. That's until her male offspring is old enough to take his place as the one in control. Zeldyan's facing a loss of power within years. She knows that will be a catastrophe because all the pressures on her son, Nesslek, will force him to repudiate her and her policies, and he'll end up repeating the follies of his sire and grandsire.”

“Because to continue the wiser course of his mother would brand him as weak and as Zeldyan's tool?”

“Exactly.”

“And I'm supposed to use that to get her to support us?”

“It's one tool. If you can find others, be my guest.” Ryba stopped, gestured toward Tower Black, then toward the low but growing walls of the far larger new keep and barracks. “Westwind will endure. We just have to assure that future is as strong as possible.”

Ryba's tone left no doubt that she intended to let nothing stand in her way to that goal, and Saryn merely nodded.

“How many guards will you need?”

“A squad should be sufficient if I can take Hryessa as well.”

“Llyselle can handle things here, and Murkassa can act as captain of second company while you're gone. She'll be taking over the new third company anyway, and that will give her more experience.” Ryba paused. “All of Hryessa's first squad are proficient with the bows. You'd best take enough to arm them all.”

“When do you expect me to leave?”

“As soon as possible. You'll be gone at least two eightdays, and that's if the weather and the Lornians cooperate.”

That was hardly likely, given the ever-changing weather around and over the Westhorns, especially in spring and early summer.

“I'll need several days to set things up.”

“What ever it takes. You're not one to procrastinate.” Ryba stopped. “That's all I had for now. Just let me know when you have everything arranged.”

“I will.”

“I know.” The Marshal nodded, then began to run uphill, as she did most mornings.

Saryn turned and headed back toward Tower Black. Once she was abreast of the practice field, she spent almost a quarter glass observing and making mental notes. Then she walked to the causeway and across it into the tower, where she made her way down to the lower level.

There she waited until Istril finished replacing a dressing on a young guard, and the woman left.

“What happened there?”

“Carelessness with the grindstone in sharpening a blade,” replied the healer. “She isn't the first, and she won't be the last.”

“Some of them only learn when they get hurt.”

“More than some, but less than if they were men.” Istril offered a crooked smile.

“Speaking of men, I saw that tripod device that Dealdron was using.”

Istril nodded. “He brought it to me, and we ran through which exercises he could do and which he shouldn't. It can't hurt, so long as he's careful, and it's bound to improve how he feels. Also, he can use it in the carpentry shop, and Vierna says that he's been quite a help there, especially with simple pieces—the ones like bunks and straight wardrobes and bunk chests.”

“Why is he pressing so hard?”

Istril laughed. “He may not be educated, but he's far from stupid. He watched a squad of guards destroy his outfit with only one fatality, while you dispatched three of them, and you've told him that his life depends on how well he acts. He's clearly a survivor, and to survive means obtaining your approval and the Marshal's. For him, that means doing things of value. I think your approval means more to him, though.”

“Mine?”

“He asks more about you and whether you'd approve.”

“But Ryba makes the final decisions.”

“For this culture, she seems too high for him to impress her. He also sees that you make the day-to-day decisions.”

“What about Adiara?”

“She's not a problem.”

“Are you suggesting that Dealdron could be?”

Istril shrugged. “I don't know. On the positive side, Aemra likes him, and she's got a good feel for people.”

“He's too old for her.”

“Not that way. He's more like an older brother who needs a little direction. Sometimes, Dyliess and Kyalynn help him, too. They've decided he needs lessons in Temple.”

“Why?”

“They have this idea that, if they can teach him Temple, that will shame some of the newer guards into learning it.”

“I doubt that will work.”

Istril shook her head. “It just might. The trio can be very persuasive, in their own manner of doing things. Dyliess has her mother's steel and her father's stubbornness and charm.”

Saryn hadn't recalled Nylan as being charming although he certainly hadn't been obnoxious.

“You never looked, Commander,” Istril said quietly. “He could be quite charming if anyone showed the least interest. He cared more than most saw. That was another reason why he had to leave.”

“You're right. I never saw that.”

“It was there. It's rare in men, but there are some who have it. Not many.”

“Would you…if he'd stayed?”

Istril shook her head. “He's the kind who invests in one woman, and that woman is everything. Women say that they want that in a man. Most don't, not really. They want to be worshipped that way, but the cost of that is too high. It doesn't work over time if they don't love in return. I couldn't have. The Marshal never did.”

“Ayrlyn did?”

“She did. That was why I could let Weryl leave. I could see that.”

“Do you ever see…the way Ryba does?”

“I get glimpses. He's happy.”

Saryn could see the brightness in the healer's eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean…”

“That's all right. You'll understand.”

It wasn't until Saryn had left the lower level and was riding down to check on the sawmill and the kilns that the oddity of Istril's last words struck her. The healer hadn't said that Saryn did understand, but that she would.

Just what else had Istril foreseen? Could Saryn persuade her to reveal more?

Over the next two days, Saryn felt as though she ran from organizing one thing to another, but late on threeday afternoon, she finally headed up the stone staircase of Tower Black to check a last time with Ryba.

Just before she reached the open door, the Marshal said, “Come in, Saryn.”

When the arms-commander entered, Ryba was standing by the open window. She half turned. “I'm assuming that you've briefed Llyselle and Murkassa. You're leaving early?”

“I did. We'll leave before sunrise. I'm taking four spare mounts. They're from the Gallosians, and we'll use them as pack animals as well.”

Ryba pursed her lips. “I've thought it over. You'd better take half of Hryessa's second squad as well. You can work that out, can't you?”

“We'll figure it out.”

Ryba stepped forward and extended a leather wallet. “There are twenty golds' worth of coins there. About half is in silvers. I'd like to send more, but that's all we can spare right now. Lady Zeldyan and the regents should be hospitable enough that you'll only need the coins while you're traveling.”

Saryn took the leather wallet, slipping it into the inside pocket of her jacket. “Besides a commitment for saltpeter and sulfur, and the other useful goods, what else do we need?”

“You know the goods. See what you can discover about Kelthyn…and Ser Gethen's health. Find out what you can about Deryll. It could prove useful to you in some fashion.”

“Ildyrom's son? Do we know anything about him except his parentage?”

“He was successful in eliminating or besting all his brothers.”

“He's ruthless, or clever, or lucky. Beyond that?”

“He wants the western part of Lornth back as part of Jerans, and he's doubtless building the forces to take it. That's all we know.”

“What about white wizards?”

“Zeldyan doesn't have any. Not unless one has appeared in the past year or so, and that's most unlikely. The engineer took care of all of those who served Lord Sillek. The Suthyans probably have some, but who knows where any who survived the fall of Cyador might be?”

“Is there anything else you want me to convey to Lady Zeldyan and her coregents?”

“Not directly. The information about Suhartyn's veiled proposals, and your presence should be enough. Try not to stay too long.” Ryba's faint and ironic smile conveyed the sense that she knew Saryn's reply before the arms-commander spoke.

“I have no desire to stay a moment longer than necessary. It's already going to be hot and sticky down there, and most of the towns will stink.”
And I'll miss the cleanliness and showers here at Tower Black, not to mention the clean mountain air.

Ryba nodded. “It will do you good to see the men of Lornth as well.”

Saryn flinched inside, but she only said, “They'll likely be just as over-bearing as the Gallosians, except not quite so overtly.”

“If you're fortunate.”

This time, Saryn nodded. “Is that all?”

“That's all. If I think of anything else, I'll tell you at supper or in the morning when I see you off.” Ryba turned back to the window, her eyes veiled.

As Saryn walked slowly down the stone steps, she thought over Ryba's words and expressions. The Marshal had seemed distracted, and yet focused and removed, all at the same time. And she looked more drawn. But was she, or had it happened over time, and Saryn hadn't noticed the gradual change?

When she reached the lowest level of the tower, Saryn found both Siret and Istril in sickbay, and both were silent, as if they had heard her boots on the stone steps and were waiting. “My ears are burning,” the commander said lightly. “Exactly what were you discussing? Or should I ask what you were saying about me?”

“We were talking about the Gallosian,” replied Siret. “Aemra has taken an interest in his carving. He's actually done several good copies of the Westwind crest on new bunks. That created a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone wanted one. So we switched them for your bunk and mine and Siret's,” said Istril. “No one could complain about the angels getting them.”

Saryn hadn't exactly approved carving the crest on bunks all over the tower. Was Dealdron going to be like so many men and push every limit?

“You did say crests were acceptable,” Istril said.

“What about the one he did of the ryall?” Saryn sensed something was going on.

“He did three of those,” said Siret blandly.

“Three?”

“Aemra persuaded him to.”

“So the trio each have flowers? Flowers?” asked Saryn.

“They are wildflowers.” Istril grinned.

Saryn shook her head. “I don't believe it. You…”

“They're only girls,” said Siret.

“They're guards.”

“They're still girls who will be guards…when they're older. Let them have a carved flower or two.” Istril's voice was firm, and she looked directly at Saryn.

“Anyone can have anything carved on their bunk,” Saryn said dryly. After a moment, she added, “Anything suitable, and no larger than the Westwind crest. Flowers, crests, animals, designs.” She wasn't about to fight that battle. “And the design and the carver have to be approved by Vierna. That's just so things don't get scratched into the wood.”

Siret and Istril exchanged glances.

Siret nodded. “Yes, ser.”

“We'll tell Vierna,” added Istril.

After a moment of silence, Saryn said, “I need a moment with Istril.”

“I'll be in the carpentry shop.” Siret stepped through the doorway and out of sickbay.

“What is it, Commander?” asked the older healer.

“The other day…you said that I would understand about sensing things. What exactly did you see?”

Istril offered a shrug. “I couldn't explain it, Commander. Sometimes, what I see is as much feeling as foresight. There's something all tied up with you and this trip and…people. I can't say what. I had a good feeling about it, though. Or not a bad one, anyway.”

Saryn could sense the truth of that, but she also knew that Istril had seen more than she was willing to say. “That's all you can say?” She tried to keep the irritation out of her words.

“That's all I'd best say. I might make it worse if I said more. You know why.”

Saryn did. Trying to avoid or change what Ryba or the healers foresaw usually just made matters worse, often far worse.

“Except,” added Istril, “be kind to Lady Zeldyan.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“How could it, in her situation? Besides, being kind to her will only help you and us.”

While that was obvious, Saryn knew Istril was right and only trying to help. “One last question. The Marshal seemed drawn and tired. How is she? Physically, I mean? She doesn't have some lingering illness or anything, does she?”

“There's nothing physical wrong with her. She just sees too much. She's trying to sort out what's useful and what isn't. Then she has to decide what she—and we—can do.”

“She's always had to do that,” Saryn replied.

“She's getting better at it. She's written out an entire book of things. It's for Dyliess and whoever becomes Marshal after her.” Istril paused. “How would you like to know chunks of future history and have to act on that knowledge? I wouldn't want to. You'd never know if you could change things or if you should have done something different.”

Saryn nodded slowly. “Did she tell you that?”

“No. Not in words. I just…know.”

“Because you can do a little of it?”

“A little is too much. I wouldn't want to know more.”

Saryn understood that. That kind of knowledge could be a set of chains. Was the tiredness she'd seen in Ryba the result of struggling with and against those chains? She shook her head. Was there any doubt about that?

Finally, she said, “Thank you.”