Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “What do you want most from the traders?” asked Siret, her eyes on the ridgeline above, where two mounted guards waited, surveying both the north and south slopes.

  “The usual—flour, dried meat, and some of the herbs, like that brinn. Any cloth that’s not too expensive, and what ever sulfur we can lay our hands on.”

  “No tools?”

  “No. Huldran and Ydrall forge better tools than anything that Kiadryn will have. The problem we’re going to have before long is iron stock. We’re close to running through all those iron crowbar blades that we’ve accumulated over the years. So we’ll need iron—unless we can find our own mine. That doesn’t look likely from what little I know about geology.”

  As the two neared the top of the ridge, Saryn checked the twin blades at her belt and the extra one in the saddle sheath. She didn’t carry one of the rare composite bows. She wasn’t that good an archer, and she was far better using an extra blade or two as a throwing weapon.

  One of the two guards stationed on the ridge rode forward when Saryn reached the crest of the road. “Commander,” offered Dyasta, “we haven’t seen any outliers, and third squad swept through the trees below us, all the way out to the flat.”

  “Thank you. Carry on.”

  Once Saryn was halfway down the northern side of the ridge, she concentrated her senses on the stand of evergreens below the road leading down to the ceramic works and the mill. She’d never had the degree of order-sensing that she’d seen in Nylan or Ayrlyn, but she got a feeling of reddish white unease whenever there were many people with weapons in an area, and she could sense “flows” when there were people around. Her senses were dependable only for about a kay and a half. Unlike Nylan and Istril, her senses didn’t flatten her if she killed someone.

  Once she was convinced that there were no hostiles flanking them, she turned her attention to the traders who were, at least in Candar, really a cross between traders and armed opportunistic pillagers. They had planted their banner on the flat to the west of the evergreens that sloped unbroken and gradually downward toward the northeast—before another set of rocky peaks rose some ten-odd kays to the north. Between was the road that wound to the northwest, then back to the north, snaking its way across the northern section of the Roof of the World for long kays before it began to descend into the hills of southwestern Gallos.

  There were five carts lined up behind the traders. None of the carts, save the first, which was filled with kegs and barrels, looked to be as full of goods as in previous years. Standing beside the trading banner was Kiadryn, a sandy-haired man with a broadsword in a shoulder harness, similar enough to the one his father, Skiodra, had worn that it might have been the same—except Saryn couldn’t imagine Skiodra giving up anything, even to his son.

  Kiadryn was as broad-shouldered as his father, but not nearly so tall. He’d taken over the trips to Westwind while his father—at least according to Kiadryn—had concentrated on the trade with Lydiar and Hydlen, and other areas farther east, generally beyond the Easthorns.

  The three guards reined up, some five yards from the banner. Siret and Saryn halted their mounts even with those of the guards but on the side away from the traders. Siret dismounted, handing the reins of the mare to one of the guards, and stepped forward to meet the trader.

  “Greetings,” offered Kiadryn.

  “Greetings, honored trader,” returned Siret.

  “I have not seen the most honored Marshal in some time,” said the trader.

  “She has seen you. She sees across the Westhorns and how you have attempted to keep far from the arms of the Gallosians.” Siret smiled politely. “But that is another matter. You have come to trade.”

  “Indeed we have, honored lady, but matters that have come to pass will make our trading less pleasurable and more costly.”

  “Ah, yes.” Siret nodded politely. “You are going to tell me that harvests were slender last fall, and that the rainfall so far this spring has not been promising, and that there is less water in the rivers and streams of the lands to the east of the Westhorns.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “All those are true, indeed, but…” Kiadryn paused. “Karthanos’s presumed heir has also declared that any who trade with you will have their goods and golds confiscated.”

  “That should not be a problem for you,” suggested Siret. “You have already decided not to remain in Gallos. Your father has moved his base to Hydelar, and you are negotiating with the traders of Suthya and the Lady Regent of Lornth.”

  Saryn was as surprised as Kiadryn by Siret’s statement, but she kept an impassive face.

  Kiadryn did not speak for a moment. Then he inclined his head politely. “As always, honored lady, your knowledge encompasses more than most would realize. Yet the harvests in Lornth were not what they could have been. I have not seen the harvests so poor as this since…for many years, since I was a youth.”

  “Since the year in which Lord Karthanos sent his armies against the Roof of the World, perhaps?” asked Saryn.

  “That might be, honored Commander.” Kiadryn smiled just slightly.

  “That is all true enough,” countered Siret, “but the harvests in Lornth were far better than in Gallos. You would rather arrive in Lornth with golds and hard goods than with those which might perish on the trip, especially if you were to be caught in the heavy spring rains that may come to the western slopes of the Roof of the World in the days ahead…”

  As the pretrading sparring eased into the negotiations on goods themselves, Saryn watched, her eyes and senses mainly on the others in the trading party, and upon the evergreens farther to the north. Kiadryn would not break the truce of the trading banner, but for enough golds, the trader—as his father once had—could certainly be induced to conduct trading while others attempted to move into a position where they could attack the Westwind contingent.

  She also scanned the men with Kiadryn, keeping in mind her discussion with Istril about recruiting suitable men. Out of all those with the trader, there was only one who looked to be less than fifteen, and he was continually playing with the hilt of the blade at his waist.

  Saryn did not stop her surveillance until she and Siret were at the ridgetop on their return and heading down the paved road to Tower Black.

  “You were studying the trader’s men,” observed Siret. “Istril said she’d talked to you.”

  “I didn’t see any that might fit in at Westwind, did you?”

  “I’m not that desperate…I’m not desperate at all.”

  Saryn looked sideways at the healer-guard. “There aren’t many like the engineer.”

  “It’s better that he’s not here,” Siret said. “Better for him and Ayrlyn and Weryl, and better for Westwind. There’s a time and a place for each of us. We have to choose where we belong and when. The engineer knew when to leave. Sometimes, it’s best to stay. Istril and I know that we belong here.” Siret shrugged, as if embarrassed.

  Saryn had to wonder whether the healer was seeing what she thought was best for Saryn or what she sensed. “Do you have…visions, like Ryba?”

  “Occasionally, an image comes to me, but none of them make sense. I’ve seen a city with a glistening white tower and watched that tower melt like wax under a blinding light like a nova. There’s no city like that, and not even the engineer wielded that kind of power. I’ve seen black-iron ships, but they say that this world has only ships with sails.” Siret shrugged. “Those kinds of visions don’t seem very useful. Who knows if they’re even true…or if they will be? What about you, Commander?”

  “No visions. I can sense what the weapons will do, and where people with weapons lurk, if they’re not too far away. That’s about it.” Except for the feel of things swirling around me.

  “Those skills are useful for an arms-commander.”

  “So are your healing skills,” Saryn pointed out.

  “There’s pain with those. When I can’t help someone enough, it hurts,” Siret said. “I’d just as
soon we didn’t have to fight anyone.”

  “On this friggin’ world?” Saryn laughed harshly.

  “I know. There’s not much choice.”

  Neither spoke for a time, but when they neared Tower Black, Saryn turned to Siret once more. “If you would lead my mount back to the stables…Ryba will be waiting.”

  “Better you than me, Commander.”

  Saryn reined up and dismounted where the road and causeway to the tower joined, then handed her mount’s reins to the healer before hurrying into the tower and up to the topmost level.

  Ryba was standing before the narrow open window, looking in the direction of Freyja. She did not turn. “Come in, Saryn.” After a moment, she asked, “How did the trading go?”

  “The flour was far more costly, over a silver a barrel,” Saryn said. “Kiadryn didn’t have as much as we would have liked. That was all he could get because the harvests in Gallos were especially poor. We took all ten barrels. He had a keg of sulfur…”

  Once Saryn finished her report, Ryba asked, still looking out the window, “What did you learn? Besides the fact that Gallos had poor harvests last fall?”

  “The harvests were poor everywhere. Scanty as we know those in Lornth were, elsewhere they were worse. They won’t be any better this coming year. The snowpack was lighter, and we haven’t had much in the way of spring snows or rains.”

  “We’ll need to do more work on the expansion, then. I’d thought we’d have a few years.”

  Saryn couldn’t help the puzzled look that crossed her face.

  The Marshal actually sighed before she replied. “Saryn…I see things. Everyone thinks I see a map of the future. I don’t. I see images, sometimes groups of them, and sometimes not for months at a time. All that I’ve seen about our times since landing has come to pass. The images haven’t necessarily meant what I thought they did. Nor did they always occur when I thought they would happen. Wild as I thought some of them were, what led to them often I could not have guessed even with an imagination far wilder than mine. Some of the images I see are of only partial success. Some are of failure. Some of those I tried hard to prevent. I did not succeed. Because I wondered about how true they might be, I’ve always written them down. No, I won’t share them. But I have to try to piece where each one fits. There’s an image of the new section of Westwind, with guards struggling to complete a section against fall snows, with women so jammed into Tower Black that there’s hardly room to move.” Ryba stopped, turned from the window, and looked at Saryn. “Now…tell me what I should do. If I turn more guards to cultivating and gathering in a time when harvests are lean, will that be enough to sustain us when Arthanos sends his army against us? And will this lone tower suffice for protection against an army when we don’t have the engineer or his magic laser?”

  “We have you, ser,” Saryn pointed out.

  “For better or worse.” Ryba’s face remained expressionless. “You’ll have to work in more arms training. They’ll be tired, but then they’ll be tired when they have to fight.”

  “More stonework?”

  “More of everything, and we can only hope that it will suffice.” Ryba turned back to the window. “That’s all.”

  Saryn slipped out of the small chamber. When Ryba was so distant, she’d had another vision. Saryn just hoped it wasn’t that terrible.

  VI

  Just past mid afternoon on sixday, as Saryn walked down from the stables, she saw Ryba and a guard wearing the green sash of a courier ride up to Tower Black, followed by two other guards. The Marshal vaulted out of the saddle, then handed the reins of her mount to the courier, and hurried inside, as the other three rode past the causeway. Did the courier mean an urgent message? Why had Ryba gone out to meet the courier, or had she been riding with a road patrol? Saryn didn’t bother asking Zandya as the courier rode past, nodding to Saryn. She knew that Ryba wouldn’t have told Zandya. Besides, Saryn would find out soon enough.

  Still…she wondered as she continued down toward Tower Black. Couriers early in spring usually were not the bearers of good tidings—not for Westwind, at least. She studied the ground flanking the road, now far firmer than it had been, and that had allowed the guards to return to full training with mounts.

  The stones on the tower causeway were dry, but there was far too much loose sand and grit there. She’d have to mention that to Hryessa.

  Saryn had barely taken three steps across the entry foyer when Dyliess bounded down the stone steps. “Mother…I mean, the Marshal. She’d like to see you if you’re free, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Dyliess.” Saryn smiled, knowing full well that Ryba never would have used the phrase “if you’re free.”

  “You’re welcome, Commander.”

  Saryn headed up the steps, slipping past two guards cleaning the wall on the third level, and making her way to the topmost level of the tower.

  Ryba was in her working grays, with the usual black belt and boots, but there were splatters of mud on her trousers, and her riding jacket was draped across the back of one of the straight-backed chairs at the round table. She turned from the window. “You saw the courier?”

  “I did. You two looked to be in a hurry.”

  “We were.” Ryba held up a scroll. “I’ve thought something like this might be coming. I’d thought it might have happened last fall, but I didn’t expect it while I was riding with third squad. So I rode back here with the courier. A Suthyan envoy should be here on eightday…with some traders.”

  “An envoy? What might he want?”

  “From Suthya? Think, Saryn.”

  “He’ll suggest we don’t trade with Lornth and offer a cloaked bribe and a threat?”

  “That’s by far the most likely possibility, but it will be very veiled in generalities and the like. Or he might suggest that an alliance or trade with Suthya might be to our benefit, given what is likely to happen in Gallos.”

  “Or both,” offered Saryn. “Do you want a demonstration of what the best archers and Hryessa’s top squad can do?”

  “That might be useful. I’d also like you…” Ryba smiled, but did not finish the sentence.

  “My little act?”

  “It can’t hurt, if only to make their envoy wary.”

  Saryn nodded. Whether one dealt with lands where rulers used cavalry or worlds using neuronets and mirror towers, shows of prowess were necessary. And that need is almost endless.

  “I don’t like it, either,” Ryba added, “but these people have been conditioned so that, without a show of power, even repeated displays of it, they can’t respect others. They respect tyrants, not coordinators. That’s where the engineer went wrong. He’s out there looking for a way to make things work without force.”

  “For someone who didn’t like force, he mustered a frigging load of it. The whole world shivered. Cyador’s pretty much collapsed, and what was left of their fleet sailed off to Hamor. That was what the traders said some years back.”

  “Something like that. A good chunk of the eastern section of Cyador is reverting to that strange forestland, and most of the rest of the country is in chaos. It will be for years, if not centuries, until someone musters enough force to put things back together.”

  Saryn just nodded, although she had the feeling that Ryba was seeing what she wanted to. “Have you actually…visualized…that?”

  Ryba shook her head. “I never get any insights there. I think it’s because there are too many possibilities for now.”

  “Do you know when on eightday the Suthyan will arrive?”

  “Plan for a demonstration in late afternoon, before the evening meal. And have the juniors clean up the guest cottage.”

  “I checked it the other day, but it won’t hold all that many armsmen.”

  “Duessya will have to clean out the end section of the stable, then. That’s more than adequate for Suthyan armsmen. I’ll see you at supper.”

  “Until then.” Saryn smiled, then turned and left the study, walking d
own all the flights of stairs to the tower’s lowest level.

  A Suthyan envoy? And Ryba had been expecting him for half a year?

  VII

  The wind whipping around Tower Black on sevenday night when Saryn finally dropped off to sleep told her that the weather was about to change. When she woke in the early chill the next morning, a thin layer of wet snow lay across the fields and meadows around Westwind, but the roads and causeways were only wet. By the time the white sun first cleared the peaks to the east, the blue-green sky was empty of clouds, and the snow had nearly all melted away, but the air was chill. Even in mid afternoon, when she had received word from the scouts that the Suthyan party was less than a glass away, and she walked back downhill after checking the stables, the air was cold enough that her breath steamed as she entered Tower Black.

  Ryba was standing inside the foyer, talking to Dyliess.

  Saryn stopped well short of mother and daughter, out of courtesy, although she could hear their words as clearly as though she had been standing between them.

  “…don’t see why we couldn’t. We shoot better than any of the guards.”

  “Because that would be too great an insult. It would only make them more intransigent,” the Marshal said.

  “They’re already intransigent, Mother.”

  “No.” The single word was low, but carried enough ice and force that Dyliess stiffened.

  “You will not. Now…” Ryba continued more softly. “You will keep the other two out of sight, but you three may observe from the second level of the tower. I want you to watch closely enough that you can describe Envoy Suhartyn perfectly and tell me exactly what sort of man he is and what he is thinking at each moment. I also would like you to be able to pick out any member of their party who appears dangerous.”