Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  A young woman scurried out of the end door, then stepped to the side, almost against the ancient dark, wood-paneled wall, and bowed her head. “Your chamber is ready, Angel.” Her eyes lingered on the battle harness and the pair of blades it held.

  “Thank you.” Saryn smiled.

  The undercaptain stopped at the door and turned to Saryn. “One of Lady Zeldyan’s ladies-in-waiting will escort you to her quarters once you are ready, Commander. She should be here shortly, but Lady Zeldyan suggested that you not rush.”

  “Thank you.” Saryn smiled politely.

  He stepped back, then turned and walked swiftly back down the hallway, wide for a dwelling but narrow for a ruler’s palace, only a fraction over two yards in width.

  Saryn stepped out of the dim corridor and into the corner chamber, large enough that it might well have been a third the size of the great hall of Tower Black—but the ceiling was far lower, barely above the fingertips of Saryn’s fully extended arm. Centered on the north wall was a large bed with a high headboard, carved with ornate images of armed men and cornered animals. Pale green hangings framed the headboard. Three long but narrow windows, recently opened, Saryn suspected, looked out on the front courtyard, while two on the south wall overlooked the side courtyard.

  Between the two south windows was a narrow fireplace, and against the west wall was a large armoire, its carvings matching those of the headboard, with a dressing table to the left, and a washstand in the corner, with two large bowls of water, one warm, and towels on the side rungs. To the right of the armoire was an ancient weapons rack. A writing desk was set back slightly from the middle window of those opening to the front of the palace. The dark wooden floor was largely covered with a green carpet, bordered in purple.

  After closing the door behind her and slipping the bolt into place, Saryn eased the weapons harness off and draped it over the arms rack beside the armoire that she scarcely needed. While she did not dawdle, it was close to half a glass later by the time she had washed up and changed to one of the cleaner uniforms she had remaining. While no one had knocked on the door, she had sensed someone outside and assumed that the woman waiting was her escort.

  When she finally did open the door, a very young woman, scarcely older than any of the Westwind silver-haired trio, stepped forward and offered what seemed to be a cross between a bow and a curtsy.

  “Honored Angel…I am here to escort you. Tomorrow, you will meet the regents in the tower council room, but Lady Zeldyan thought it would be more suitable for you two to talk in her private chambers.”

  Not only suitable but doubtless far more discreet. “I look forward to seeing the lady.”

  The route to Zeldyan’s chambers was simple. They walked almost the length of the palace and past the top of a large formal staircase to the north end of the palace, up one flight of stairs, then back to the left perhaps ten yards to an unmarked door.

  A single armsman stood outside. He did not look at Saryn as the young Lornian woman opened the door, but Saryn could sense his curiosity.

  “The angel, Lady.” The escort stepped back to allow Saryn to enter.

  Saryn nodded to the young woman. “Thank you.” Then she entered the chamber.

  The door closed behind her, and she stood in a sitting room that featured three windows looking out on the front courtyard, but with an archway leading into a chamber to the left.

  A slender blond woman, with piercing green eyes, wearing black trousers and a tunic trimmed in purple, stood from a small square table with a chair on each side and on which were set several covered dishes, two bottles, and a pair of goblets. “Welcome to Lornth. Undercaptain Maerkyn indicated that you are an arms-commander?”

  “Saryn, Lady Zeldyan. I am the arms-commander of Westwind.” Saryn inclined her head politely. She could see strands of white intermingled with the blond ones, and there was a slight darkness under Zeldyan’s eyes.

  “Seldom do angels leave the Roof of the World,” offered Zeldyan. “Never have any done so without cause. I would doubt that the Marshal sent her arms-commander and more than thirty guards were there not great cause.”

  “There is certainly cause for concern, Lady.”

  “I imagine you could use some refreshment, and I thought we might talk while you refreshed yourself. I’ve arranged for your guards to be fed in the barracks mess and for your officers to join ours this evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please sit down.” Zeldyan gestured to the chair across from her, then reseated herself.

  Saryn took the chair, thankful that it had a thick cushion.

  “I can only offer red or white wine, Commander…”

  “Saryn, Lady.”

  “Then you must call me Zeldyan when we are in private. Red…or white?”

  “I like both. Whichever you think the best.” Saryn sensed a welter of emotions behind the regent’s collected facade, most clearly anxiety and curiosity, and a touch of fear.

  “The red, then.” Zeldyan filled both goblets half-full, then lifted her goblet. “To your safe arrival here.”

  Saryn raised the goblet before her in return. “And to your grace and hospitality.” She took a small sip of the deep red vintage, appreciating the natural fullness and the hints of flowers.

  Zeldyan set down her goblet and removed the tops of the three porcelain dishes. “This one has small lamb pies. These are currant-and-meat-stuffed potato skins, and these are cheese pastries. I prefer the cheese, but the currant stuffing is also good.”

  “And the lamb?” asked Saryn with a smile.

  “Good, but very filling.”

  Saryn took one of the cheese pastries, just large enough for a single mouthful, and found it moist and surprisingly light. “It’s very good.”

  “It was one of my mother’s favorites.”

  Saryn sensed the momentary sadness…and realized that Zeldyan’s mother was dead. She’d known that one of the other regents—Ser Gethen—was her father, but no one had ever mentioned Zeldyan’s mother. “I can see why.”

  After a time, Zeldyan took a sip of her wine. “You have come far.”

  “And with reason. Earlier in the spring, we found a large body of Gallosian cavalry in the lower reaches of the Roof of the World. They were posing as bandits and attacking travelers and traders who were attempting to cross the Westhorns.”

  “Knowing how your Marshal pledged to keep the Westhorns free of brigands, I imagine you took some action.”

  “We did. All the armsmen are dead. We have their ostler at Westwind.” Saryn took another sip of wine, and one of the currant-stuffed skins. “We also discovered from the ostler that Lord Karthanos’s son—Arthanos—has not only removed all of his brothers, but that he has also recruited some ten additional companies, and it appears likely that they will attack.”

  “From what you have said already, that would appear likely…and perhaps unfortunate.” Zeldyan sipped her wine. “Yet…you are here, rather than in Fenard.”

  “We had thought, as a result of that occurrence, and another, that Lornth and Westwind might have similar interests. We also have seen few traders, apparently for reasons linked to what we have learned, and the Marshal was interested in obtaining some sulfur and saltpeter and thought you might be of assistance.”

  Zeldyan frowned, but behind the frown was more curiosity than anything…and worry. “I fear I have yet to understand why our interests might coincide.”

  “The Suthyan Council sent an envoy to Westwind, accompanied by a high trader named Baorl and the son of a Lord Calasyr. That is how they were represented. The envoy and the lord’s son were seated beside the Marshal.” Saryn paused, waiting for a reaction.

  “That sounds as it should be.”

  “The Suthyan envoy talked generally about the difficulties Westwind faced in finding traders to supply its needs given the problems that might arise among our neighbors.”

  “Was that how he phrased it?”

  “I believe the exac
t words were something to the effect that ‘If any ill should befall Lornth, even the most doughty of traders might find it difficult to reach the Westhorns…except, of course, from Suthya.’ He also made an observation that the older lord-holders in Lornth feared that you and the other regents would not turn over power to your son when he reached his majority.” Saryn knew she was conflating two statements, but the truth behind them remained. “The Marshal seemed unimpressed, and the young lord attempted to poison the Marshal’s wine. When he was given the choice of drinking the wine or swallowing iron, he attempted to attack the Marshal. Needless to say, he did not succeed, and the Marshal expelled all the Suthyans from Westwind within the glass, bearing his body, despite the darkness and the chill of the evening.”

  “That seems unduly generous.” Zeldyan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Had we slaughtered them all, who would have believed us?” Saryn smiled politely. “What happened after that is even more interesting….” She went on to explain how the Suthyan party had split and how Ryba had dispatched her to Lornth. “…and now I find myself reporting to you that, because of the Suthyans, we were forced to defend ourselves against an unprovoked attack when we were riding here to warn you about the Suthyan intentions toward Lornth.”

  “An unprovoked attack? By whom?”

  “The armsmen of Duevek.” Saryn went on to explain.

  Zeldyan nodded slowly. “What does the Marshal think the Suthyan intentions might be?”

  Saryn sensed that, while the events were a surprise to her, the general situation was not entirely unexpected. “She does not yet know of the attack by the Lord of Duevek, but even before that her feeling was that the Suthyans were planning for some sort of attack against Lornth, possibly shortly after the likely attack by Arthanos against Westwind.” Again, Saryn was guessing in her representation of Ryba.

  “She must be greatly gifted with foresight to have seen all that, even before it happened.” This time the irony was gentle. Behind the words was a mixture of worry and skepticism.

  “She has seen much that has come to pass, often long before it has, Lady Zeldyan.”

  “That may be, from what I have seen with the black mage and the flame mage. Though they helped us, they cost us most dearly.”

  Black mage and flame mage? Saryn realized she had to be talking about Nylan and Ayrlyn. “They cost the Cyadorans far more dearly.”

  “Yes. Cyador is no more, not as it was. But Lornth is not as it was, either. The lands they scoured with fire south of Rohrn all the way to Clynya have only begun to recover…even now.”

  “…and you have so few armsmen that the Suthyans have retaken Rulyarth and threaten Lornth itself,” finished Saryn.

  “You do not ask for much,” Zeldyan said, “not for such a long journey, but why do you need such comparatively useless items as saltpeter and sulfur?”

  “To create things that are more useful against the Gallosians.”

  “And not against Lornth?”

  “We are few in number, compared to either Lornth or Gallos. We wish to be left in peace. Lornth has done so. Gallos has not. Why would we wish to anger and trouble a land with whom we are at peace? Especially when we face the attacks and enmity of two others?”

  Zeldyan laughed, with a bitterness not revealed in the sound but only the feelings behind it. “I thought as much, but one must ask.”

  Saryn said nothing but took a sip of the wine. Her goblet was still almost half-full.

  “You have given information, and you have weakened one who might yet be a traitor,” Zeldyan went on. “Yet you do not offer us much hope.”

  “What would you have of us…of me?” replied Saryn.

  “What ever you can offer…after you deal with the Gallosians.” A tight and wry smile crossed Zeldyan’s lips, then vanished. “Unlike my sire and Kelthyn, I know one cannot demand of angels. One can trust their word, and I would like your word that you will provide what assistance you can so long as it does not require you to lose Westwind to Arthanos.”

  “I cannot commit Westwind, Lady.”

  “Can you commit yourself, Angel?”

  Saryn did not speak for a moment. Zeldyan knew Saryn could read her feelings, and the regent was hiding nothing—not her fears, nor her wish to preserve what she could for her son, and for those who would follow. We have to have the sulfur and saltpeter…or Westwind will not survive…and how many women and their children will die then? What hope will remain to the others who look to Westwind and the legend that Ryba is forging?

  “I will give what I can of myself and what I can raise, Lady, if you ask it of me. That is all I can promise.”

  “You will have all the saltpeter and sulfur I can summon.” Zeldyan smiled, and there was relief, hope…and anxiety behind the expression. “You might try the lamb…or more of the stuffed skins…”

  Saryn understood that what lay before her was her supper, and she almost smiled at Zeldyan’s finesse in keeping Saryn away from the others in the palace before they met more formally. As she picked up one of the small pastry pies, Saryn wondered how much she would rue her promise.

  Yet…what else could she have done? What other real choice did you have?

  XXV

  The next morning, Saryn was awake early, but within moments after her feet hit the thick carpet over the wooden floor, there was a knock on her door.

  “Yes?” She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the dressing gown left for her—the first such that she’d seen in the more than ten years since she’d found herself in Candar.

  “Would you like your breakfast, Commander?” asked a feminine voice.

  Saryn pulled on the gown and tied it shut. “Now would be fine.” She walked to the door, pausing to let her senses range beyond it, but there were only two women in the hall. Neither radiated hostility, only worry and apprehension. She slid the bolt back and opened the door.

  Without looking at Saryn, the serving girl hurried into the chamber, where she quickly laid out a place on the small writing table, then set out all the items on the breakfast tray. She straightened and bowed. “Will there be anything else, Commander?”

  Saryn glanced over the breakfast—a small loaf of fresh-baked bread, with a dish of dark conserve or jelly; several strips of ham; a mound that looked like egg and cheese; a sliced pearapple; and two pitchers, gray and green, with two mugs. “That will be fine, thank you.”

  Another bow, and the serving girl was gone, but another young woman entered, and she quickly replaced the washbasin and the two pitchers of water. She, too, vanished as quickly as she had come, and Saryn found herself alone as she seated herself at the side of the table, looking out through the window to her left. The table was set just far enough back that she could see the early-morning shadows on the courtyard below.

  A note was set on one side of the tray, folded and sealed, the imprint presumably that of the Lady Zeldyan. Before starting to eat, Saryn broke the seal and read:

  Commander:

  The regents would be pleased to meet with you at the tenth glass of the morning to discuss matters of mutual import and concern. In the meantime, the palace and grounds are open to you.

  Below the precise Anglorat script was a single letter—Z.

  The breakfast offered far more than she normally ate. Because the greenjuice was bitter, she only drank the cider, although it bore a trace of fermentation. After eating, Saryn washed and dressed, only to hear another knock.

  “Yes?”

  “Commander…I’m here to take what ever you need washed…”

  That was welcome news. “Please come in.”

  Saryn gave the young laundress almost everything she had brought, except the uniform she wore and another that passed for a dress uniform. She’d thought about wearing that but decided against it, because she was meeting the regents officially, but not formally.

  Then she followed the laundress out of the chamber, almost past a startled-looking young woman.

  “Command
er—”

  “I need to see to my guards.” She had probably slept far too late and spent too much time on breakfast, and she needed to see how they had fared.

  “The regents will be expecting you in a glass and a half.”

  “I will be ready. You can accompany me…or wait here. I’ll be checking the barracks.” Saryn hurried down the corridor and down the south steps she had taken the night before, out the door, and across the uneven pavement of the rear courtyard.

  Even before Saryn reached the second barracks, Hryessa stepped out into the courtyard, looking more rested than she had on too many of the previous mornings.

  “How are they?” asked Saryn.

  “Everyone’s fine. The food is decent, better than what we’ve had, and there was plenty. I figured we wouldn’t be traveling today. So I’ve got everyone cleaning their gear and equipment and washing uniforms.”

  “And Kalasta and the other wounded guards?”

  “They’re healing well.”

  “Good. I’m meeting with the regents shortly. I met with Lady Zeldyan last night.”

  Hryessa raised her eyebrows.

  “She’s worried, but she’s promised the saltpeter and sulfur. She didn’t say how long we’d have to wait for it.” Or if the other regents will agree with her decision. That was something Saryn didn’t see any need to mention. Not yet.

  “How long will we have here?”

  Saryn shrugged, offering a wry smile. “I couldn’t say, but I wouldn’t plan on leaving before tomorrow at the earliest.” She paused. “Until I know more, they’d best stay within the palace walls. I don’t think Lornth will be that friendly to Westwind guards. They can certainly take care of themselves, but doing so might create some injured males and their pride—if not worse. We don’t need that.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” The captain shook her head.