Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How much were you able to obtain?”

  “Three small wagonsful,” Saryn replied. “And the loan of the wagons and the dray horses. We lost a wheel, and one of the wagons will need to be rebuilt before it goes anywhere.”

  “Do you think we need to return them?”

  “No one will complain, but it still would be a good idea.”

  Ryba looked hard at Saryn. “Exactly what did you have to promise for all that?”

  “My personal help to the lady, but only after we deal with the Gallosians.”

  “Your personal help?”

  “I could not commit Westwind.”

  “Saryn… I would not…”

  “What else did I have to offer? I’m no trader. I’m a former space pi lot with skills in weapons and some ability to lead people. After this last trek, I’d never want to be a trader.”

  Abruptly, the Marshal nodded. “Each of us is slave to what must be.”

  “Must be… or might be?” asked Saryn.

  Ryba smiled sadly. “Don’t you think that I’ve tried to change things from what I’ve seen? So far my attempts to change things have led to what has occurred, and so have my attempts to avoid changing things.”

  “Predestination? No free will? Do you really believe that?”

  “No. But I do believe that our exercise of free will leads to what will be and that there’s only one future. No matter what the talk may be about multiple universes branching off from any decision, we each only have the one future that we choose with each decision.”

  Only one future, and that dictated by the exercise of free will? At that thought, Saryn took another, larger, sip of the brandy.

  After a time, she asked, “When will the Gallosians attack? Sooner than you thought?”

  Ryba nodded. “There are more scouts from the east, more refugee women, and no other travelers or traders.” She paused. “You’ve had a long trip. The kitchen should have a late supper ready for all of you in a bit. Go and eat. We’ll talk more later.”

  “Until later.” Saryn rose and turned toward the open door.

  Behind her, Ryba remained at the table, looking nowhere.

  Saryn slowly made her way back down the steps to the main level.

  There, Istril stood in the front foyer of Tower Black, as if she had been waiting for Saryn to descend from the Marshal’s chambers. “Welcome back.”

  “Is anything the matter?” asked Saryn.

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Changed? What do you mean?”

  “You’re more ordered. More black than chaos. Except that’s not right… they almost flow around you in ordered patterns.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You already know that the more black you are, the harder it will be for you in battle, among other things. You’ve tried to avoid changing, and you have been successful, more than any other. But you’ve finally changed, and you look… you feel… different.”

  Saryn smiled wryly. “You wouldn’t be telling me that if you didn’t have something in mind. What’s happened here that Ryba isn’t likely to tell me?”

  “Besides the score or so of Gallosian scouts that have vanished? Or her trips up into the ice fields? Or the forty-odd Analerian women and their daughters who appeared last eightday?”

  “Forty? Is Arthanos conducting some sort of purge in Analeria?”

  “According to several of the women, he discovered that women actually serve as village elders and several village chiefs are women. One of them was killed because she had the temerity to be overheard by a Gallosian officer saying that she didn’t understand what all the fuss was about Westwind. The other villages nearby petitioned Karthanos to recompense the village, and Arthanos responded by burning them all to the ground.”

  “Did they bring anything but the clothes on their backs?”

  “You sound like Ryba.”

  “I don’t mean to, but…”

  Istril sighed. “Ten of them had burns that had gotten infected. One died. We saved the others. Seven or eight might make good guards with training, and most of the girls look healthy. There are fifteen girls and five boys, but none of the boys are over five. Arthanos had something to do with that. He captured the youths and men and killed any who wouldn’t join his army.”

  “He sounds as bad as the Rationalists. Worse, actually.”

  Istril just smiled sadly.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “We have a lot of time, especially at night, to think, Commander. I’ve thought a lot. Most rulers believe what they do is for the best. It might be best for themselves, or it might be best for what they believe in. Or for the people. Or for whatever god there is. Not many people do anything just to do it badly.”

  “You don’t think there’s a difference between rulers?”

  “Of course there is. Some are effective, and some are not. Ryba’s effective. Lord Sillek was not. Arthanos appears to be quite effective in raising an army. Ryba will be effective in destroying it. The Suthyans will be effective in profiting off everyone’s misery.”

  “You’re saying that Lord Sillek didn’t believe enough in attacking us?”

  “What do you think, Commander? You’ve been to Lornth. I haven’t.”

  “His widow seemed to think he had doubts. Is that what it’s all about? To be effective, you have to believe in what you’re doing? To the point that it costs everyone around you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just thought about it a lot.”

  “Maybe that’s why tyrants are effective,” Saryn said. “Because their beliefs are so important that they let nothing stand in their way. But is that the way things should be?”

  Istril said nothing.

  “Or is it just the way matters have to be?” Saryn didn’t want to think about that, not as tired as she was. “How are all the injured and wounded?”

  “No one’s been hurt seriously since you left, except for the refugee women. Dealdron’s healing well. His leg is in a walking splint. You probably ought to talk to him tomorrow, after you talk to Siret.”

  “Now what?”

  “Siret can explain better than I can. It’s not that kind of problem. He works hard, and he works long. He doesn’t argue, and he always wants to do better.”

  “Then… what?”

  “It’s late, Commander. Could the three of us talk tomorrow?”

  “That might be better,” Saryn conceded, even as she wondered what the problem could possibly be. Still, the fact that she couldn’t even guess suggested she wasn’t thinking clearly and that Istril was right about waiting to talk it over until the next day.

  XXIX

  Saryn rose early on sixday and sought out Llyselle because she wanted a full briefing on what had happened in her absence. The guard captain was leaving the kitchen, where she’d obviously grabbed something to eat before starting her day.

  “I thought I’d see you early, ser,” mumbled Llyselle, after swallowing the last of a biscuit.

  “It might be a good idea if you briefed me.” Saryn gestured toward the archway that led into the carpentry shop since she could tell that the shop was empty at the moment, although she had the feeling someone had been there not too long before.

  Llyselle followed her, and once they were out of easy earshot, stopped and began to report. “The Gallosians have been sending scouts toward the three approaches to Westwind. I won’t say that we’ve gotten all of them, but we’ve added almost another thirty of those crowbar blades to the trading/iron stockpile. I sent Siret and a squad down lower. The Gallosians are gathering wagons and setting up a staging base not that far below the entrance to the north pass. All the refugees have been avoiding the usual passes and coming up over the southern hills, the way that leads from Analeria, even those that aren’t from there…”

  Saryn listened for a time before asking, “How long do you think before they’ll set out?”

  “They’re planning a major campaign. At least two eightdays, maybe th
ree or four.”

  Saryn thought about sending a squad to harass the staging camp with arrows, but that was likely just to waste shafts. Better to save those for when they could make every one count. “How is the training coming for the new guards?”

  “Slow. Too many of them are here because they have no place else to go, not because they want to be here.”

  “They can’t be encouraged to head to Lornth?”

  “They’re mostly Analerians. They think Lornth’s as bad as Gallos.”

  Saryn sighed. She should have realized that after what Istril had said the night before. “That’s going to be a problem.”

  “We’re overcrowded. Most of them are in the stables for now, and that’s fine for the moment, but when the weather turns in the fall…”

  “Can we turn them to doing something on the new barracks and keep?”

  “Siret has a bunch of them hauling stones… and there’s one who actually knows something about masonry. But the rest…” Llyselle shook her head. “They’re farmers, and half of what they know won’t work on the Roof of the World.”

  Saryn wondered if what Dealdron knew about masonry was enough to be helpful. She’d have to ask him. “They’ll have to learn or freeze.” Then she shook her head. “No one has the time to teach them more than the minimum now, not until we deal with the Gallosians. Have your guards continue to keep a close eye on the Gallosians. For the moment, that’s all we can do. I should know more in a day or so.” Saryn hoped that was so.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Saryn followed Llyselle’s example of grabbing several biscuits from the kitchen before checking the armory, as well as running a quick inspection of the tower. Before all that long, she was out on the arms field limbering up with all the other guards. After Istril’s comments of the night before, Saryn positioned herself so that she could watch Dealdron. No sooner was she in place than Ryba joined her.

  The Marshal said nothing, and Saryn could still watch Dealdron. The young Gallosian now wore a bulky brace and splint on his leg and was able to do a much wider range of exercises. He did each precisely, yet with a certain awkwardness that suggested that they were not yet habit.

  The sparring sessions followed, and Saryn squared off against the Marshal. She was on the defensive, possibly because she kept trying to watch Dealdron. She was startled, but not exactly surprised to find that the trio of silver-haired girls had taken on the duty of instructing Dealdron. As she continued to catch glimpses, one after another of the three worked with Dealdron, and not a one showed him favors or mercy. If anything, they pressed him more than would have been usual for an inexperienced guard. The only mercy they showed was not striking his injured leg.

  At the end of the sparring, Ryba inclined her head to Saryn. “You could concentrate more, Saryn.”

  “I have a few things on my mind.”

  “The trio can take care of themselves. I’ll see you this afternoon.” With that, Ryba turned and strode uphill toward the stables.

  Once the rest of the guards broke from their sparring sessions and split up for their daily duties, Saryn motioned to Istril and Siret. Under a sky that held scattered clouds, the three gathered at the west end of the causeway, where it joined the road to the smithy and the stables.

  “Now…” began Saryn, looking at Istril, “last night you said you had something to say about Dealdron, except that it wasn’t that he was a problem. Just how is he doing?”

  “You saw him during the exercises and the sessions…” began Siret.

  “Did you see him working with the trio this morning?” asked Istril.

  “I saw them working him over pretty unmercifully. If they’ve been doing that very long, he’s got to have bruises over most of his body.”

  “He asked for someone to press him as hard as possible. We thought they’d be ideal, because, even with the leg, he’s strong, and they need to learn to deal with strength and discover that technique has its limits. He needs to learn technique, and besides…” Istril broke off.

  “No one else besides you two and Llyselle will press them?” asked Saryn.

  “They are looked on as the heirs to the Marshal.”

  “Only one is,” Saryn pointed out.

  “She doesn’t treat them that way,” replied Siret. “It’s as if they’re all hers, at least when it suits her.”

  “They are sisters, and it would be worse if she openly favored any one of them,” Saryn pointed out. “What else can she do? It seems to me that she and you are all doing the best you can.” She paused. “But what does this have to do with Dealdron?”

  “He’s still looking for your approval,” Istril said.

  “I haven’t even been here.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  Saryn would just have to deal with it. “I’m going to talk to Dealdron. I’ll also see what he knows about stonework. If he knows something, can you use his help?” Saryn looked to Siret.

  “We can use any help we can get. While the weather’s good, he’ll be more use there than in the carpentry shop. We need to finish the walls on the new barracks.”

  “If he could be a help, when should he start… I mean, with his leg?”

  “I’d give him another eightday at carpentry,” suggested Istril. “That way, he’ll be stronger, and he can finish those foot chests that Vierna never had time to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because things like bunks and replacement shutters and trying to teach new guards some basics so that she doesn’t have to do everything take up most of her time.”

  Saryn nodded tiredly. It’s always been like that. For ten years, never enough of anything.

  “You’re right,” said Siret, looking from Saryn to Istril. “There’s something there…”

  “Something what?” asked Saryn.

  “About you, ser.”

  “Could you two just say what you mean?”

  “We can’t, ser,” replied Istril. “Not the way you mean.”

  “Tell me what you can, then.”

  The two exchanged glances. Finally, Istril said, “We see or feel, but it’s like half feeling, half seeing mixed together, a blackness or a reddish white when people like the engineer—”

  “I know that. The blackness is more like order, and you can move things and build and heal with it, and the reddish white is chaos, and it tears things apart. Those mages that were with Lord Sillek used the whitish red chaos to throw their thunderbolts or whatever they were.”

  “You, ser… you sort of had them all mixed together, except now there’s more of both the black and the white, and they’re all separate.”

  “Why would that be?” asked Saryn. “I haven’t done that much that’s different. Maybe not anything.”

  “With us,” added Siret, “it was healing. The more we did, the blacker things got. Have you tried anything like that?”

  “Just once… just a little bit.”

  “That could do it.”

  “Just once?”

  “Sometimes, it only takes once,” Istril said dryly.

  Saryn found herself both flushing and trying to stop the urge to laugh. “You two can be impossible.”

  “Yes, ser,” agreed Istril. “You will talk to Dealdron?”

  “Later. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “No, ser. Not right now.”

  “Good.” Saryn turned and began to walk up the road toward the smithy, thinking over what the two healers had said. Why would her trying to heal Jennyleu incline her more toward separating order and chaos? Would that hurt her ability in battle? How much?

  Huldran was checking the forge fire when Saryn entered the smithy, but immediately turned and walked to meet the arms-commander. “Ser?”

  “How are the bows coming?”

  “Good as we can do, ser,” replied Huldran. “We’ll have near-on thirty frames laid down by the middle of summer. That’s all we’ve got enough horn and glue for right now.”

  “Arrowheads?�
��

  “Daryn and Ydrall have been working on them steadily…”

  Saryn listened as Huldran provided a rundown on everything in the smithy.

  “…and the Marshal ordered seven of these, ser.” Huldran pointed to a series of objects on the workbench against the smithy wall. Each resembled a funnel a half yard across at the larger end, but the end of the funnel was capped with a heavy wedge. Beside each was a circular iron plate, designed to plug the larger end. “She didn’t say why, but she gave me a drawing with the specs.”

  Saryn nodded. The design suggested clearly what Ryba had in mind for the Gallosians. “They’re designed to…” She paused. “They’ll have a special use against the Gallosians.”

  “Be helpful to know what that is,” replied Huldran.

  “They’re designed to focus a blast,” Saryn hedged. “Where, I don’t know.”

  “Fill them with old-time powder?”

  “Something like that, but I’d have to ask her.”

  “Wicked-looking devices.”

  With that and suspecting their use, if not in exact detail, Saryn could agree.

  From the smithy, Saryn walked up the road to the stables, where she found Duessya instructing a group of young guards on which stalls to clean. She stayed in the shadows until the head ostler finished, and the guards fanned out to their assigned chores.

  “Commander. The mounts you brought back were fine, and the spares you picked up along the way are all in good shape. A couple of really good mares, and the one stallion has promise. The drays… though… they’re a sorry bunch. Old and overworked.”

  “Can you get them in better shape?”

  “One for sure. Another one… maybe. The third…” Duessya shook her head.

  “Do what you can.” Saryn sensed no one near. “Do you know where the Marshal went?”

  “I’d not be the one to ask her, ser, but she was headed toward the ice fields to the northwest. She’s ridden there several times this season.”

  Ice fields? Why does she need to go there? “I wonder why.”

  “She brings back ice, but I’d guess that’s not why she goes. She doesn’t say, and she always goes alone.”