Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Shartyr glided to the high circular table on which rested several carafes. After setting his own goblet down, he half filled the remaining empty one—of pale green crystal—and returned, holding his own goblet in the other hand, and tendered the goblet to Saryn.

  “Thank you.” Saryn offered a polite smile.

  “I trust you will find it at least as flavorful as anything found in the heights.”

  “Far more flavorful, I am certain,” returned Saryn. “The Roof of the World is not kind to subtlety or subtle flavors, and I doubt that it will ever be.”

  “You see, Shartyr,” Zeldyan said, “she understands you are a master of subtlety.”

  “My dear Regent, you do me too much honor.”

  Saryn took the smallest sip of the wine. It was good. “This is one of the best wines I’ve had since I’ve been in Lornth.”

  “That is because it is one of the best wines in Lornth,” replied Shartyr.

  “You must be able to sell it to the Suthyans for a goodly price,” suggested Saryn. “Pardon me, but my inquiry does show my lack of subtlety.”

  “One can be too subtle about some matters,” commented Zeldyan.

  “Alas, I part with some of it for practical purposes, and for not so much as it is truly worth, yet one must do what one must in these troubled times.”

  “Have you hosted many others this summer?” asked Saryn. “You have such a distinctive keep here.”

  “Distinctive?” Shartyr laughed. “It is one of the oldest in Lornth, and its greatest distinction is that I have been forced to spend many golds in rebuilding it. My father, alas, was not the best in managing the lands, and so I have had to spend much time almost as a factor and trader in order to make things prosper once more.”

  “You have done well,” added Zeldyan. “Your armsmen look most accomplished, and you have, what, six companies?”

  “Hardly that, my dear Lady Regent. I have barracks that will hold eight, and adequate stables, but no lord-holder of Masengyl has maintained any number close to that in generations. I count myself fortunate to have two companies. Of course, having the space does mean that I can accommodate your men.” Shartyr turned to Saryn. “And your guards, without any crowding.”

  “For which the guards and armsmen are both grateful,” replied Saryn, “as am I, and, I suspect, so is Lady Zeldyan. Tell me, since I am new to Lornth… you must come from a long tradition of success with arms. A hold this strong and this established would not seem likely to have endured without such.”

  “Such a perceptive inquiry,” mused Shartyr, beaming at Amelyna, “don’t you think so, dearest?”

  “She recognizes your stature and worth,” replied the black-haired woman, her voice barely short of simpering.

  “As do all in Lornth,” added Zeldyan.

  “I cannot claim much prowess in arms,” admitted the lord-holder. “Without such, I am most careful in selecting those who are, for are we all not judged not just by what we are and what we do ourselves, but by what those with whom we surround ourselves are and do?”

  “Most certainly,” replied Saryn. “It is clear that you have thought this matter through with great foresight, as you must have many things.”

  While Saryn had no doubts that she and Zeldyan would survive dinner and the eve ning, it was clear that it would be exceedingly and politely cutting and arduous, and that she would learn little except just how courteously slithery Shartyr could be.

  LXI

  Saryn was more than happy to leave her chamber—and more than ready to depart Masengyl—early the next morning. Dinner had been as long as she had feared, and as tiring, given that she had to watch every word and weigh every phrase uttered by Shartyr. As she fastened her gear behind her saddle, while the other guards were doing the same, Klarisa hurried over to her.

  “Commander?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There are four barracks buildings,” said Klarisa. “Each can hold two companies. One is filled with armsmen. The second is half-filled. Lady Zeldyan’s armsmen were in the third, and no one else, and we were in the fourth.”

  “Had the third and fourth barracks been used recently?” asked Saryn.

  “They were clean. The storage areas were empty, and there was some dust. They have been used, but only for short periods. I did ask one of the old women who clean the buildings. She said that armsmen in brown and yellow had stayed here in early spring, and in early summer a company in blue and gray also stayed for several days. A company of armsmen in orange and black left little more than an eightday ago. She does not know what lord they belonged to because no lord accompanied them. They did not speak much, except among themselves. They were headed north.” Klarisa paused. “Blue and white are the colors of Lord Orsynn, but I do not know whose are blue and gray, orange and black… or brown and yellow.”

  Klarisa’s recollection of Orsynn’s colors reminded Saryn that the squad leader was from Lornth. “Brown and yellow are the colors of Duevek.” Saryn was hardly surprised that Henstrenn had visited Masengyl, but she had no idea whose men sported orange and black. “What else?”

  “Lord Shartyr has always bred horses, but he has been selling more of them in the last seasons, yet there are more in the stables, and more grain has been laid up.” Klarisa paused. “I would not claim to know everything, but I would venture these lords are readying for war.”

  Saryn nodded. “At the very least, they’re preparing for some sort of fighting. Let me know if you find out anything else… or if any of your squad does.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Once Saryn was mounted and had made certain the guards were ready, she rode across the courtyard to the front entry of the keep, where Zeldyan was saying her farewell to Shartyr.

  As Saryn reined up, Shartyr turned and smiled. “You do look fearsome in battle garb, Commander. Remind me not to cross you.”

  “I doubt that you need any reminders about anything, Lord Shartyr,” replied Saryn. “A lord who can offer such hospitality to a former enemy on such short notice is extraordinarily formidable himself. I do thank you for your charm and grace, and for your skill in enlightening me about so many facets of Lornth that I had not considered.”

  “It was more than my plea sure.” Shartyr bowed.

  Saryn inclined her head politely, then turned her mount back toward the section of the courtyard where fourth squad had formed up. She could sense a certain play of chaos around Shartyr, as well as a clear dislike of Saryn. That hardly surprised her.

  Within moments, Zeldyan rode to join Saryn. The two women followed the Lornian outriders and scouts out through the massive gates and across the causeway onto the road to Gaylyn. Not until they were a good kay east of the small town and almost on the river road south to Lornth did Saryn ease her gelding directly beside that of Zeldyan and close enough that those riding ahead of them would not catch her words.

  “What lord-holders have colors of blue and gray and of orange and black?” asked Saryn.

  “A brilliant blue and dark gray? Those are Lord Jaffrayt’s. The orange and black are those of Veryna. No other lord has those par tic u lar colors.”

  “That’s Lord Kelthyn.” Saryn paused. “A company of his armsmen were here, without him, an eightday ago, and they were headed north.”

  “North? A company?” Zeldyan’s face clouded. “We didn’t see any trace of them. They must have taken the old east road. I’ll need to send a courier to The Groves.”

  “With escorts,” suggested Saryn.

  Zeldyan nodded. “If Father is warned, he should have more than enough armsmen to handle a company—if it even comes to that.”

  “Could they be headed anywhere else?”

  “To any northern holding,” Zeldyan pointed out. “That’s the problem.”

  “But wouldn’t that…”

  “Yes. It would mean a war among the holders. But unless they do something that offends those who support the regency, I cannot afford to attack any of them.”


  And once you find out, it may be too late.

  “Nor do I have enough armsmen to chase a single company across Lornth. Nor any mages, not that any have such… these days.”

  That might be, but how long before one of the rebels finds one… or the Gallosians or Suthyans send one? Again, Saryn found herself regretting something—this time, that she hadn’t worked more on ways to deflect chaos-bolts. She also couldn’t help but wonder how matters had gotten so bad… except that she was beginning to understand—and Ryba’s words came to mind—“To succeed you will need to be more ruthless than any man, for only then will they respect you.”

  LXII

  …All was well in Westwind in the days that followed the fall of Cyador, for though the winters were long and chill, Tower Black was warm and well provisioned, and the goods and plunder gained from the defeat of the Lornian forces fed the angels for a time, but only for a time.

  Yet all was not well beyond the Westhorns, for to the east the Prefect of Gallos had sickened, and treachery infected his land. His youn gest son removed his brothers and made himself ruler in all but name. Fearing the example of Westwind, the treacherous son first drove out all those from Analeria who believed that women and men should share equally in duties and rights, scourging them, and slaying any man who respected his consort. He declared that none could travel the Westhorns nor trade with the angels. Then he raised a mighty host to bring against the angels of Westwind. For he believed that, with the departure of Nylan, no mages of power remained upon the Roof of the World, and warriors though the remaining angels might be, they could not withstand the horde of armsmen that he led westward toward the heights of Westwind itself.

  Yet Ryba marshaled all the angels, including those who had fled Gallos, upon a hill in the middle of a valley before a Gallosian force so numerous that they were locusts upon the land, ready to swarm over the small host of the angels and devour them. When they rode up that slope to smite and destroy the angels, Ryba signaled the sun, and the mountains trembled, and shuddered, and shuddered yet again, until half of a great mountain split away from its firmament and buried all but a few score of that horde, leaving no sign that any so engulfed in that wave of rock and soil had ever existed. And all Gallos mourned, and the darkness of grief hung heavy over the land, with orphans and widows weeping streams into the streets of towns and hamlets. And the Lord Prefect took to his deathbed.

  Yet in the north, in the depths of Suthya, remained those who saw the calamities that befell Gallos as an opportunity for their own gain, and they spread coins across the troubled land of Lornth, suggesting to each lord who received such largesse that he, and he alone, should become the Overlord of all Lornth, because it was not fitting for Lornth to be ruled by a widow whose lord had failed to subdue the angels of Westwind.

  As in all matters where knowledge is lacking, those in Suthya did not comprehend the depth and breadth of their folly, for Ryba dispatched Saryn of the black blades and her host to bolster the regency of Lornth. Yet when the lords of Lornth first beheld Saryn, they perceived but a woman of stature smaller than themselves, seeing even less than the fresh-faced undercaptain she resembled in form. And they gathered together, and said, “We will make an end of her and of the regency.” While they spoke thusly to each other, each in his heart desired to make an end of all those who would contest his claim to the lordship of the land, and each armed more and more of his retainers, thinking that he, and he alone, would triumph by the might of blades and bows. And some among them even enlisted the aid of their ancient foes to the west, enticing them with the honey of plunder and golds.

  In the growing darkness that surrounded Saryn, as she crossed the contending holdings of Lornth, she yearned but to staunch the flow of blood and the jealous strife that plagued so many of those who held lands… yet until she raised her dark blades and the forces behind them, none save the regent widow would listen to reason, only to the lure of golds and power. And so it was in the end, that their greed and their blindness turned them against the widow regent, who but wanted to save and heal the land…

  Book of Ayrlyn

  Section I

  [Restricted Text]

  LXIII

  Another long day’s ride brought Saryn and the regent’s party back into the palace courtyard just before sunset on oneday eve ning. As Saryn rode slowly toward the second barracks and the rear stables, she straightened in the saddle. Ahead were Westwind guards, standing in formation at attention, with Hryessa at one end.

  “Present arms!”

  Blades flashed into position, but something about the entire scene nagged at Saryn for a moment—until she looked more closely. There were three full squads of guards. Had Ryba sent two more squads? But as she rode closer, she could see the last squads consisted of unfamiliar faces, and some were very young. Had that many recruits come to Hryessa? Saryn just hoped that the recruiting had been voluntary—very voluntary. Even so, Saryn drew and raised a blade in response and led fourth squad past the arrayed guards to the stable. There, she had Klarisa dismiss fourth squad to unsaddling and grooming before she dismounted to meet Hryessa.

  “Welcome back, Commander,” said the guard captain, with a grin.

  “I see you have a few recruits,” Saryn said, smiling back.

  “Yes, ser… and that is not all. There is almost another squad, but they are not well trained enough to join in a formal drill yet. We do not have enough mounts for all, either. Or blades, but Daryn has the old armorer’s forge, and he is working on that.”

  “Captain,” said Saryn, torn between laughing and being appalled, “if you would explain?”

  “Within a day of when you left, some of the girls who had been pressed into being harlots came to Shalya. They asked if they could become guards. As squad leader, Shalya came to me.” Hryessa shrugged. “From what I have seen, the Lornians do not care much for what happens to women without coins, and we will be able to use them. So I followed your instructions.”

  “And?” prompted Saryn.

  “We have over forty in training. I saw we would not have blades enough. I know the Marshal would not have food enough for so many in the winter to come. So I sent four guards with a message to the Marshal asking for what blades she could spare. She sent back the four guards, and ten more who volunteered, with a wagon. There were but ten more short swords, besides those carried by the new guards, but the wagon held many worthless or broken blades, and Daryn and some of his tools. The Marshal sent me a letter saying that sending Daryn would be best… because he was a man and would work harder for me at forging the blades we needed.”

  “Daryn’s here? What about your children?”

  “They came, too. No one minds. Oh… and she sent you a letter also.” From her tunic, Hryessa withdrew a sealed envelope and handed it to Saryn.

  Much as she would have preferred to read the missive alone, Saryn opened it, breaking the seal and letting the wax fragments fall onto the paving stones of the courtyard. She paused as her eyes followed the wax for an instant. The scraggly grass around the courtyard was gone.

  Another example of Hryessa’s initiative? She shook her head and turned her attention to the letter. She needed to know what the Marshal had written before she committed herself to anything else.

  Saryn—

  The future of Westwind depends on you, yet I can only spare what I have sent. With the recent influx of even more women from Analeria, we cannot feed more than what we have here now, possibly not even those if winter descends early. That is one reason why I could spare another half squad to support you.

  If you can find a way to send flour or cheese or other staples before winter sets in, we would appreciate it.

  Please remember what I told you in parting.

  The signature was an ornate, single “R.”

  Saryn lowered the missive. Just what had Ryba foreseen? She looked to Hryessa. “Exactly how did these… recruits know we would accept them?”

  “You said the gua
rds could go into the town. Some went to the cafes and the taverns, especially the Square Platter. They’re more friendly there.” Hryessa shrugged. “Word got out.”

  “How did the guards have the coins to frequent the taverns?”

  “They did not have too many, but”—Hryessa smiled—“you must remember that there were many dead Gallosians not buried by the mountain who had no further need of rings and coins, and not all the coins found their way to the Marshal’s strongboxes.”

  That certainly figured, Saryn realized. She’d been in so much pain after the avalanche that she hadn’t been as attentive as she should have been. “It’s all been as easy as that?” She tried to keep the ironic tone out of her voice.

  “No, ser. We’ve had problems. I have two women locked in the armsmen’s brig, and every day the local patrol chief comes to make sure that they are still there. One, I think, should be whipped, and set free somewhere well away from Lornth. She stole silvers from the Square Platter, but we replaced them. The other”—the captain shook her head—“she took a blade and killed a man and a woman. I talked with the regent’s undercaptain. He said that any punishment that is merited by the regent’s armsmen is handed down by the overcaptain and approved by the regent. I said that you and the regent would decide the punishment for the two.”

  Saryn withheld a sigh. She expected some problems, but not a recruit murdering a former lover or whatever the man had been. “Tell me more about the killing.”

  “The woman’s name is Fynna. I believe she was really a harlot, but no one would say. She took a blade to a bouncer at the Green Dog, fellow named Ritta or something like that—”

  “Rhytter?”

  “I think that’s it. Anyway, the two with her tried to grab her, but she vaulted over a railing and put the blade into another harlot. That was when the two guards got her. They weren’t gentle. They carried her back here.”