“But why me?” he asked. “Isn’t there anyone here who could be warlord?”
The noblewoman snorted in derision. “Your ancestors,” she said, “were about the worst line in the whole family at providing enough heirs. It doesn’t help that warlords tend to die young, in battle.”
That statement, when the unfamiliar terms had been defined, did little to help Sterren’s peace of mind, but he made no comment.
“After you,” Lady Kalira continued, “the next heir is the old warlord’s third cousin—your third cousin twice removed. That’s only the seventh degree of consanguinity. You’re an heir in the third degree of consanguinity. That’s a pretty big difference. And besides, you’re young and strong...”
Sterren took this as flattery, since he knew he was relatively scrawny.
“...and she’s past fifty. If she had a son—well, that would be the eighth degree, but it might do. Unfortunately, her only child is a daughter. Unmarried, even if we allowed inheritance by marriage instead of blood.”
An attempt to explain the new words this time was unsuccessful until, exasperated, Lady Kalira rose and crossed to the desk, where she found a sheet of paper, a pen, and ink, then leaned over and began drawing a family tree.
Sterren, still seated, watched with interest as she ran down the history of Semma’s nine warlords.
The first, Tendel, was the younger brother of King Rayel II, born almost two hundred years ago. His son, also named Tendel, followed him, and a grandson after that, but this third Tendel managed to get himself killed in battle early in the disastrous Third Ksinallionese War, before he got around to marrying and siring heirs. His brother Sterren inherited the title as Fourth Warlord, only to get himself killed three years later in the same war.
This first Sterren had been kind enough to produce five children, though three of them were daughters, and the younger son died without issue. The elder son succeeded as Fifth Warlord. His only child became Sixth Warlord, and in turn produced only one son, the eventual Seventh Warlord, before meeting a nasty end after losing a war.
Sterren, Seventh Warlord was only twenty-one when he inherited the title, and lived to be seventy-three. He was something of a legend. He broke with tradition, and instead of marrying a distant cousin married an Ethsharitic woman he found somewhere.
They had three children, though the second one, Dereth, died in infancy. The eldest, Sterren, eventually became the Eighth Warlord—and the youngest, Tanissa the Stubborn, ran away with an Ethsharitic trader in 5169 and was never heard from again.
She, of course, was Sterren of Ethshar’s grandmother. And since her brother never did get around to marrying or producing children, that made Sterren the Ninth Warlord.
The next-closest heir was Nerra the Cheerful, a granddaughter of the Fourth Warlord’s eldest daughter—not exactly an obvious choice.
Lady Kalira put aside the sketchy geneaology after that and continued her explanation without further prompting. Sterren listened politely, following the unfamiliar words as best he could.
When it had become clear that old Sterren was finally dying the royal genealogist, unaware of Tanissa’s son and grandson, had needed over an hour simply to determine who the heir should be.
He had noticed the notation in the records of Tanissa’s elopement, and had reported it, along with his conclusions, to the king and his advisors. After considerable debate Agor, the castle theurgist, had been called in; he in turn had called up Unniel the Discerning, a minor goddess, who after much coaxing had, in her turn, called upon Aibem, a more powerful god, who had, finally, informed everybody that although Tanissa was dead, her grandson was still alive and well.
After that, of course, Lady Kalira and her little entourage had been sent to find Sterren and bring him back to Semma, and they had done just that. Lady Kalira, who was not anywhere in the line of succession for warlord, had gotten the job because she was the heir presumptive to her cousin Inria, Seventh Trader. Inria, eighty years old, could not have made the trip herself.
When Lady Kalira had finished, Sterren nodded. “And here I am,” he agreed. “Now what do I do?”
“I would think that would be obvious—you’re to take command of the army and defend Semma.”
“Defend Semma?”
“Protect it from its enemies,” she explained.
“What enemies?”
“All enemies.”
“Semma has enemies?”
“Of course it does, idiot! Ksinallion, for one, and Ophkar, for another.”
Up until that moment, Sterren had entertained a vague hope that his unwanted new job would turn out to be a sinecure, with a title and pay and no duties. He suppressed a sigh of disappointment.
It came as especially bad news that both Semma’s larger neighbors were considered enemies—but at least, he told himself, he hadn’t arrived in the middle of a war.
“Do you think that ... that a war may come soon?”
Lady Kalira grimaced. “Much too soon,” she said, “from the look of you, and what I’ve seen in the barracks of late.”
Had his knowledge of Semmat been good enough for the job, Sterren would have made a retort about being glad to relinquish his position as warlord, which he hadn’t asked for in the first place, if she thought someone else could do better.
Instead, he asked, “What do I do now? Today?”
“Well,” Lady Kalira said, looking about the chamber, “I suppose you’ll want to settle in here, maybe clean up a little. I’ll have Dogal fetch water and something to eat; I don’t suppose that you’ll want to come down for lunch. You’ll be expected to eat at the High Table at dinner, of course, to talk to His Majesty and meet some of the people here—the princes and princesses, for example—but I think you can leave all that until dinner. For this afternoon, I would recommend that you take some time to learn the situation here—talk to your officers, maybe look over the barracks, that sort of thing. You’re the warlord; you must know more about it than I do.”
Astonished, Sterren said, “But I was never a warlord before!”
“It’s in your blood, isn’t it?”
“Not that I ever noticed,” Sterren replied.
Lady Kalira ignored that, as she turned to the doorway and called, “Dogal, go down to the kitchens and get wash water and something for Lord Sterren to eat, would you?”
Dogal bobbed his head. “Yes, my lady,” he said, and then quickly departed.
“Alder, here, will help you unpack, if you like,” she suggested.
Sterren nodded absently. Alder stepped into the room, carrying the bundle of possessions that Sterren had collected from his room back on Bargain Street. He deposited it upon the bed and began untying it.
“My officers, you said,” Sterren said. The phrase carried an impression of power and authority, and he felt a sudden surge of interest.
“Yes, of course,” Lady Kalira replied.
“I suppose I should meet them, talk to them.”
“Yes.”
The thought of all those stairs came to him, and he asked, “Could you send them up here?”
“Of course, Lord Sterren,” Lady Kalira said, with a faint bow.
The bow startled him. Lady Kalira noticed his surprise, and explained, “Lord Sterren, I think I really should tell you that as warlord, now that you have accepted the position and that the king has acknowledged you, you outrank me. In fact, you are now one of the highest-ranking nobles in Semma. Historically, the warlord and the foreign minister are equal in rank and second only to the king and his immediate family, with all others—steward, treasurer, trader, all of them—your inferiors.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Sterren mused on that for awhile, wondering just what such an exalted rank would actually mean in terms of power, privilege—and responsibility. He almost forgot Lady Kalira was there until she reminded him.
“My lord?” she asked.
“Ah,” Sterren said, startled. “Yes?”
“Lord Sterren, I’m tired and hungry, too. If you have no more questions, may I have your leave to go?”
Startled anew, Sterren stammered. “Of course,” he managed at last.
Lady Kalira curtseyed, then turned.
“Send up my officers,” Sterren called, “when I’m done eating.”
He was sure she had heard him, but she said nothing as she slipped out of the room.
He stared after her for a moment.
The switch from her role as exasperated jailer to one of deferential subordinate was curiously unnerving. He was not accustomed to having anyone defer to him. He had always settled for simple tolerance, which was all a tavern-gambler or street brat could reasonably ask.
There was something very seductive about the thought of a woman unable to leave his room until he granted permission. Admittedly, the aging and irritable Lady Kalira was not herself seductive in the least, but the idea of such power certainly had its appeal.
But it came with the job of warlord, with all the unknown hazards and duties that must surely imply. War meant swords and blood and death and killing, and he wanted no part of it.
But Semma had been at peace since twenty years before he was born. Maybe he could defend it without fighting any wars, as his immediate predecessor, the great-uncle he had never known, had.
“My lord,” Alder said, startling him from his muddled thoughts, “shall I hang this in the wardrobe?” He held up one of Sterren’s old tunics.
“Yes,” Sterren said. He took a sudden interest in his belongings, seeing that everything went somewhere appropriate, and that he knew how the room was arranged. It was becoming clear that, barring the unforeseen, he was going to be staying for quite some time.
He was unsure now whether that was good news or bad.
Chapter Six
He pushed away the plate and stood up.
Alder looked up, startled, and began, “My lord...”
“Oh, go ahead and eat,” Sterren said crossly. He was already getting tired of the strange new deference paid him. Alder had just started to eat, but he was obviously ready to leap up and follow orders, should his warlord care to give any.
His warlord did not. His warlord was feeling very much out of place. His moods kept swinging back and forth. This room, and title, and rank were all very well, and could be a lot of fun—but they also seemed to be permanent and involuntary, which could be tiresome, quite aside from the accompanying responsibilities and risks. It was clear, despite the submissive gestures from Alder and Lady Kalira, that he was still something of a prisoner; if he tried to just walk out of the castle, and head back toward Ethshar, he was quite sure that Alder or Dogal or both would follow him, and probably stop him before he got out of the village.
And he was tired of seeing Alder and Dogal, after several days spent traveling in their close—very close—company.
At least Lady Kalira was gone, and he would be meeting other people soon.
Of course, that, too, had both its appealing and frightening aspects. These people were barbarians, not Ethsharites; he was sure that he was not what anybody expected in a warlord, and he had no idea just how the Semmans might deal with his shortcomings. That mention of summary execution, back in the tavern on Bargain Street, had stayed with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.
Dogal and Alder had eaten in turns, and Dogal was now guarding the door, keeping Sterren’s officers, who had arrived a moment earlier, waiting in the hall.
“Dogal,” Sterren called, “send them in.”
Dogal said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed the three waiting men to enter.
Each in turn stepped into the chamber, bowed, spoke, and then stepped aside to make room for the next.
“Anduron of Semma, Lord Sterren,” said the first, with a graceful bow and a jingle of jewelry. He was tall and sturdy, richly dressed in blue silk, perhaps thirty years old—certainly much older than Sterren. Like every Semman Sterren had yet seen, he was dark-haired and deeply tanned. Sterren thought he detected a family resemblance to the king.
He also detected, more definitely, a trace of scent, something vaguely flowery.
“Arl of the Strong Arm,” said the next, bobbing his head. He was shorter, but Sterren guessed his weight to be no less than Anduron’s, and his age was probably similar. He wore a red kilt and red-embroidered yellow tunic, and smelled of nothing but leather and sweat.
“Shemder the Bold,” said the third, without ceremony. He fell between the others in height, but clearly weighed less than either of them, being thin and wiry, and was younger as well, surely no more than twenty-five—but still older than Sterren. His garb was similar to Arl’s, but more ornate and better-kept, and Sterren could detect no odor at all.
These three were more or less displaying the forms of deference due a superior, but it was obvious they did not really feel any of the respect those forms implied.
Lady Kalira had been subtler in her contempt.
“I’m Sterren of Ethshar,” Sterren replied, bowing in his turn. He pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, refusing to yield to the Semman usage. After all, he thought resentfully, Semmat did use the TH sound—just not in combination with SH.
“Your pardon, my lord,” said Anduron, “but would it not be more proper to call yourself Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma?”
Anduron’s words were smoothly spoken, and Sterren would have liked to make a graceful reply. His limited knowledge of the language forced him to make do with, “I guess you’re right. I’m still new at this.” He smiled, not very convincingly.
Behind him, Alder was hurriedly stuffing the last few bites of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth.
The three new arrivals stood stiffly silent for a moment.
“Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, finally, “you sent for us?”
“Yes,” Sterren said. “Of course. Sit down.” He waved at the chairs in the various corners. Alder was just getting up from the chair at the desk, and after an instant’s hesitation Sterren settled on the foot of the bed instead of trying to maneuver behind the soldier.
The officers obeyed, bringing the chairs to a rough semi-circle. Once seated, they stared stonily at Sterren.
He took a deep breath, and delivered his little speech, two of the longest sentences he had yet contrived in Semmat.
“I called you here because I am told I am a warlord now, whether I like it or not. I think I need to find out what that means, and what it is I am expected to do.”
The officers still stared silently.
“You aren’t making this easy,” Sterren said, blinking at them.
“Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, “you still haven’t told us what you want of us.”
“What I want,” Sterren said, “is to know what I, your warlord, am expected to do. I want you three to tell me.”
The three exchanged looks.
“My lord,” Shemder said, “it is not our place to tell you what to do. It is your job to tell us what to do.”
Sterren suppressed a sigh. Whether they resented the elevation of a stranger as their superior, or whether they were testing him somehow, or whether they were simply stupid or stubborn or unimaginative, Sterren had no way of knowing, but he could see plainly enough that his officers were not going to be a great deal of help.
At least, not at first. Perhaps they would adjust eventually.
“Lord Shemder...” he began.
“I am no lord,” Shemder interrupted.
Sterren acknowledged the correction with a nod, and said, “Shemder, then, tell me your duties.”
“My duties, Lord Sterren?”
“Yes, your duties.” He hoped he hadn’t gotten the wrong word.
“I have no duties at present, my lord; I am the commander of the Semman cavalry, not a mere guardsman.”
“Cavalry?” The word was unfamiliar.
“Cavalry.”
Sterren looked at Alder, who supplied, “Soldiers on horses.”
&nbs
p; Sterren nodded, filing the word away. “Cavalry. Good. You’re the commander of the Semman cavalry. Do you have a particular title? Do I call you my lord, or commander?”
“Captain, my lord,” Shemder said grimly. “You call me Captain.”
“Thank you, Captain Shemder. And Captain Arl, is it?”
“Yes, Lord Sterren.” Where Shemder had sounded barely tolerant of his new lord, Arl sounded resigned and despairing.
“Captain of what?”
“Infantry, my lord—foot soldiers.”
Sterren nodded politely, appreciative of Arl’s trace of cooperation in explaining an unfamiliar word without forcing Sterren to ask.
“And Captain Anduron?”
“Lord Anduron, my lord. I am your second in command, in charge of everything that Captain Arl and Captain Shemder are not—archers, the castle garrison, supply, and so forth.” He spoke with studied nonchalance, sprawling comfortably on his chair.
“Ah!” That sounded promising, especially once Alder and Lord Anduron between them had explained the unfamiliar words. Sterren wondered if he could palm off all his duties on Lord Anduron and leave himself to enjoy his position as a figurehead. Lord Anduron had a look of cool competence about him that Sterren hoped was not mere affectation. “How many archers are there?” he asked.
Lord Anduron’s reply burst Sterren’s bubble instantly.
“None, at present,” he said calmly.
“None?”
“None. We’ve had no need of any for forty years, after all; archers aren’t particularly impressive in parades or display, and bow-wood is expensive. Old Sterren—that is, your esteemed predecessor, the Eighth Warlord—allowed all the old archers to retire, and left it to me, or my father before me, to replace them, and we didn’t trouble to do so. If we need archers, I’m sure we can find and train them quickly.”
“Ah.” Sterren tried to look wise and understanding, although he had missed several words, and was fairly certain that training a competent archer took a good deal more time and effort than Lord Anduron thought—especially if there were no trained archers around to serve as teachers. “What about the castle ... garrison? Is that the word?”
The Unwilling Warlord Page 5
