Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Once everyone was seated, and the goblets filled, Ryba raised hers. “A welcome to our guests, for you have traveled far through rugged terrain.”

  What was served in the ceramic pitchers was not properly wine, but more like an ice-wine from the bitter wild grapes that Istril had managed to use her senses to, as she put it, “tame.” The resulting liquid was half table vintage and half brandy, odd but smooth and drinkable. Far too drinkable in larger quantities, Saryn knew.

  “And our thanks for your hospitality,” replied Suhartyn, lifting his goblet.

  Saryn but sipped from her goblet, as did Undercaptain Whulyn, she noted, while the captain drank less sparingly.

  “How did you come to be a captain in the Suthyan horse?” she asked.

  “A younger son in a trading house has few honorable options. That is most true if one’s talents do not run to trading and counting.” Lygyrt lifted his goblet slightly. “And you, Commander, how did you come to command the arms of the Roof of the World?”

  “The Marshal commands, Captain,” Saryn replied evenly, almost softly. “I do what is necessary to carry out those commands.”

  “But… you are most talented with arms.”

  “The Marshal is also most talented with arms, and she has had many more years experience in fighting and leading.”

  “It is said that you who are true angels were born on another world.”

  “That is true, and we have fought in the darkness and cold between worlds. But all at Westwind are angels.”

  “Yet you remain here?”

  “We had no choice. The vessel that carried us between worlds failed, and we made landfall here.”

  The servers appeared with large serving platters, holding sliced wild boar that had been cold-marinated for several days, then slow-roasted. Another set of platters held fried lace potatoes, and another a heap of mashed local turnips, in a white sauce. Two baskets of fresh-baked bread also appeared.

  “Excellent,” exclaimed Suhartyn, after a bite of the boar.

  “Simple as this is, our usual fare here is even simpler,” Ryba said. “We can only maintain a small herd of cows through the winter, and the chickens are not grown this early in the year.”

  “Early in the year?” asked Baorl. “This is late spring.”

  “It is late spring for you in Suthya,” replied Istril, “but the last of the snow and ice around Westwind melted away but two weeks ago. Some snow in the shaded areas above us may last all summer.”

  “It is chill indeed here,” observed Calasyr, “and yet some of you wear but summer garments.” The young noble lifted his right hand, and a reddish whiteness swirled around it—except the chaos wasn’t from his hand, Saryn realized, but from his large and elaborate gold ring.

  “That is why they need trade, Lord Calasyr,” said Suhartyn. “The season is too short here to be certain for them to grow the wheat corn.”

  “Ah, yes,” added Baorl, “trade. But trade can also be uncertain, even in the best of times. And it is said that Lord Karthanos is loath to let traders travel from his lands to Westwinds.”

  “It is no secret that the lands of Gallos are not as amicably disposed toward us as are… others,” replied Ryba. “Still, many do trade with us.”

  “Mainly through Lornth, I believe,” suggested Suhartyn. “If any ill should befall Lornth, as might have happened had Cyador not collapsed in ruins, even the most doughty of traders might find it difficult to reach the Westhorns… except, of course, from Suthya.”

  “What ill might befall Lornth?” asked Ryba. “Its regents have offended no one, so far as we have heard.”

  “One never knows,” said Calasyr, gesturing extravagantly. “It is said that some of the older holders in Lornth fear that the regent’s rule may not lapse even when Lord Nesslek reaches his majority.”

  “We, in Suthya, of course,” added Suhartyn, “would like to remain on good terms with all, especially with Westwind, whatever might occur in Lornth.”

  “Unlikely as that might seem at the moment,” continued Calasyr.

  Even though she followed Calasyr’s gestures closely, Saryn couldn’t determine how he managed it, only that the chaos—poison presumably—was suddenly in Ryba’s goblet. Before Ryba could lift the goblet again, Saryn half stood, turned, and grasped it with her left hand.

  “What…?” The Marshal half smiled, but immediately released her grip and let Saryn take the vessel.

  Saryn set the goblet before Calasyr, the short sword in her right hand. “You, Lord Calasyr, have a simple choice. You can swallow what you put in the Marshal’s goblet, or you can swallow cold iron—”

  The blond man bolted to his feet, a poignard coming up and aimed toward the Marshal.

  Two blades went through him, one from in front and one from behind. He stood there… wavering, then started to topple forward. Hryessa stepped forward and grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling him away from the table. Saryn eased her blade from between his ribs.

  Llyselle’s blade tip was at the back of Suhartyn’s neck, and Huldran had cold iron on Baorl. Ydrall and Duessya had moved behind the two officers.

  The envoy paled, and the high trader slowly put his hands on the table, palms up.

  “Suhartyn…” Ryba said coldly. “I expected better of you.”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t!”

  “Siret?”

  “He’s telling the truth about that. I’d guess he suspected treachery but not by Calasyr. I don’t think he was told.”

  “Of course. They feared that we’d detect any lies on his part.”

  Ryba’s smile was cold as she stood. “Does your council fear a collection of distant women so much that they would try such treachery?” She shook her head. “I doubt it. Like all thieving merchants, they merely looked for the cheapest way to their ends. And like all dishonest traders, you and they will end up paying far, far more as a result of your dishonesty. As for you, and your men, you have one glass to depart Westwind. You may leave the tower now.”

  Suhartyn inclined his head.

  “And take that carrion with you.” Ryba glanced toward Calasyr’s corpse.

  As the Suthyans filed out, with two Suthyans Saryn had not met carrying Calasyr’s body, Whulyn lagged behind the others, slightly. Saryn moved toward him as he neared the archway between the hall and the foyer. “A moment, Undercaptain.”

  The grizzled officer turned. “Yes?”

  “Neither you nor the captain was party to Calasyr’s plot, were you?”

  “No. Why do you say that?” An ironic smile flickered at the corners of his thin lips.

  “Because of who each of you happens to be. What will your superiors say?”

  “We’ll likely be cashiered if we return to Armat.”

  “You might consider serving Lady Zeldyan of Lornth, in that case.”

  “That might only postpone the inevitable, Commander.”

  “It might… but what is inevitable to one land is not necessarily so to another.”

  Whulyn nodded. “I appreciate your concern, Commander, but I must ready my men. I assume they are well.”

  “Unless they lifted arms, you will find them well.”

  “I told them not to, and they obey. Good night.” The undercaptain turned and hurried to follow the other Suthyans.

  “What was that about?” asked Ryba.

  “I was trying to recruit a good officer for Lady Zeldyan. She, and we, could use such.”

  “That she could. I’ll need to talk to you in the morning, but I want you personally to make sure every last Suthyan is off the Roof of the World before the next glass is turned.”

  “Yes, ser.” Saryn nodded and hurried toward the tower door.

  Out on the causeway her gelding was waiting, held by Aemra.

  “I can hold horses while others bear arms, Commander. The horses will not disobey me.” Even in the dim light cast by the pair of lanterns framing the tower door, the calm behind the silver-haired girl’s smile was obvious
.

  “Thank you.” Saryn took the reins and mounted, then urged the gelding across the causeway to the road and uphill.

  She could sense that Llyselle’s entire company was mounted and stationed in squads along the road. With the guards in place, and with the Suthyans effectively under Lygyrt’s—and Whulyn’s—command, Saryn had few doubts that all the Suthyans would be well away from Westwind within Ryba’s time limits.

  Still, she’d have scouts follow them and hold a squad on standby for the night.

  VIII

  Oneday morning, after grabbing some bread and cheese from the kitchen, Saryn was out of the tower well before sunrise. She didn’t feel as tired as she might have, even though she’d been up late the night before checking with the scouts and patrols to make certain that the Suthyans were gone—and that they stayed on the road home to Armat.

  Her first concern was with the horses. Dealing with the Suthyans had meant more riding and less rest for the mounts, and it was still early in the year, when the horses were not as well conditioned as they would be later. That was one reason why she wanted to check with Duessya.

  The head ostler was inspecting the front hoofs of a mare when Saryn reached the stables. Saryn stepped away and started to walk through the stables. While she didn’t have the sensitivity of either Istril or Siret, if she concentrated, more like opening her senses wider, she could feel pain, but it was more like a needle jab than the overwhelming agony that she’d seen flatten Nylan and Istril.

  She walked the entire length of the stables and back, but didn’t sense that any horse was in great pain or agony.

  Duessya waited, looking like she’d gotten less sleep than Saryn. “Yes, Commander?”

  “How are the horses?”

  “A handful will need to be rested, but most are in good shape. The Suthyans and their mounts aren’t used to the heights or the cold. We didn’t have to work ours nearly that hard.”

  “There are lots of things they’re not used to.” Saryn’s words came out more tartly than she had intended.

  “They do not like women with cold iron.”

  “And minds of their own,” added Saryn. “How many more foals are we expecting?”

  “Just two. We have ten in all, and they’re all healthy…”

  By the time Saryn had finished with Duessya and was walking back down the road, the junior guards were lined up on the field for exercises and arms practice.

  Ryba had crossed the causeway and walked across the corner of the field to join Saryn.

  “Good morning, ser,” offered the arms-commander.

  “Good morning, Saryn. Have you heard anything more about the Suthyans?”

  “They were all headed northwest, but I have scouts following them. We can’t be sure for several days where they’re going… except that it’s away from Westwind.”

  “The envoy did not seem overly impressed with the skill of the guards,” said Ryba.

  “I don’t think he knows much about arms,” replied Saryn. “The undercaptain understood, but I doubt that any of the se nior officers will listen to him.”

  “In a society where position is granted by birth and gender, junior officers who come up through the ranks are ignored almost as much as women.” Ryba’s laugh was both low and harsh. “In all of Candar, West-wind is the only land where women and ability are recognized.”

  But you feel almost the same way about men as the Suthyans, Lornians, and Gallosians do about women. Is that really any better? Saryn knew better than to voice that thought.

  “What do you think about the timing of the envoy’s visit?” pressed Ryba.

  “It was early in the year.”

  “Exactly. That suggests that someone has planned something.”

  “There’s no sign of the Suthyans bringing up more armsmen.”

  “They won’t. They prefer to have others fight for them, whenever possible.”

  “That does suggest that they’re working with the Gallosians.” Saryn paused but for a moment. “I thought that it might be a good idea if I took a squad farther east to look into matters.”

  “If you hadn’t suggested it, I would have,” replied Ryba. “Arthanos has no love of Westwind, and he might even have been the one to put the Suthyans up to their treachery.”

  “In hopes of weakening Westwind before he musters forces for an attack on us?”

  “That’s a foregone conclusion. When were you planning on leaving?”

  “I’d thought we’d leave on threeday.”

  “You might be better making it tomorrow.”

  That alone told Saryn that Ryba was more than casually concerned. “Yes, ser.”

  “After we warm up, I need to spar. So do you.”

  That was also true, Saryn knew.

  IX

  For early spring on the Roof of the World, the day was warm enough for Saryn to shed her riding jacket as she accompanied first company’s second squad down through the pass to the north and east of the high valley through which the traders had come. Despite the clear sky and the direct whitish sunlight beating down through the greenish blue sky, snow was still drifted into piles in the shade under the massive evergreens on each side of the road. Saryn still found herself amused at what she now considered a “road.” The only proper roads in the Westhorns were those around Westwind, stone-paved and generally level, although the guards had, over the past several years, paved certain sections of the packed-dirt ways around the Roof of the World, just to keep them from washing out, as well as building several short stone-and-earth bridges.

  Rocky steep cliffs rose away from the stream and the narrow road, barely wide enough for two mounts abreast, or one cart or small wagon. In places, Saryn saw glints of ice. Even so, an alpine muskrat scurried from the near-freezing water into a concealed burrow.

  “Do you think the scouts actually saw brigands?” asked Murkassa, the squad leader.

  “They saw armed men,” replied Saryn. “Either brigands or armsmen from Gallos. There were just two riders, and there weren’t any tracks that suggested a larger group.”

  “I’d lay a wager on scouts for armsmen. Brigands would know that few men, even those with coins and weapons, travel the Westhorns in spring.”

  “And not women and weapons?” asked Saryn with a laugh.

  “We’re still the only women with weapons. We’ll be the only ones for a long, long time.”

  “Even with Westwind as an example?”

  “People don’t change. Even my mother couldn’t believe I’d leave,” said Murkassa. “My father beat her every time he didn’t like what she fixed for dinner, but she wouldn’t leave.”

  “You left,” Saryn pointed out.

  “I was frightened.” Murkassa laughed. “When I realized that I was frightened all the time, I decided to leave and make my way to the West-horns.” She paused. “Most women have never heard of Westwind, except when men talk about us as worse than the white demons.”

  “I can see why you left your family, but why did you come to West-wind?”

  “There was nowhere else to go.” Murkassa shrugged. “Anywhere else would have been like where I grew up, and worse, because no one at all would have cared.”

  “You don’t miss men?”

  “I don’t miss men like my father and my brothers. I would that there had been more like the engineer, or Relyn, or Daryn, but having no men is better than having those that I knew.” Murkassa smiled. “Besides, you angels will provide. You always have.”

  Saryn wasn’t so certain about that, especially in finding suitable men, those who were not either hopeless or hopelessly arrogant.

  At that moment, ahead of the squad, Saryn saw one of the outriders rein up, while the other turned and began to trot back up the road toward the rest of the squad.

  “Commander! Bodies on the road!”

  “Arms ready!” ordered Murkassa.

  “Ride down to the edge of the pass. Hold up there until I can see what we might face.” Saryn couldn�
�t sense any living brigands or weapons, but there might be some beyond the outriders, farther east than her sensing skills could reach.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Saryn urged her mount forward at a quick trot. There wasn’t any point to moving faster on the uneven downhill section of the road, with its winter-twisted humps and ruts. She rode almost two hundred yards before the road began to flatten, and the rocky edges of the pass walls began to widen out into the small and largely wooded semivalley that lay beyond the pass.

  The outrider, a freckled young redhead, waited for Saryn, her mount turned so that she could watch both the squad and the other outrider who had reined up ahead.

  “There are two on the road.” The young guard pointed. “You can see the cart poles, but the cart horse or donkey is gone. Like as not anything of value went, too.”

  Saryn still could not sense anything… except the faint reddish white residue of death that lay over the small grassy area to the south of the road. With the light wind out of the south, all she could smell were road dust, trees, and the soggy vegetation that bordered the stream to the north of the road. “You ride with me. We’ll take our time.”

  Alert as she was, all Saryn could see or sense as she neared the second outrider and the cleared area by the overturned cart were the two West-wind guards. Still… there was something in the woods, but too small to be a brigand, hiding under a spreading evergreen bush.

  The two guards, their blades out, flanked Saryn as they rode slowly forward. Saryn reined up short of the oiled and weathered wooden cart, overturned in all likelihood to see if anything of value had been hidden beneath it. Her eyes ran across the carnage. Two men, both graying slightly, had been cut down within yards of the cart, but they’d died fighting, from the slashes and the blood. One had his temple smashed in. Their garments had been disarrayed, and a belt wallet lay half-open on the road between the bodies and the cart.

  Easing her mount around the cart and onto the softer grassy ground to the south, Saryn reined up again. There had been three women, one much older and white-haired. She’d tried to flee and been run down by a rider and struck from behind. The other two, one of whom looked barely out of girlhood, had been stripped from the waist down, and used by the brigands before their throats had been cut.