Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You can do anything, ser. The rest of us are less able.”

  The tone in Hryessa’s voice caught Saryn, not because it was sardonic or ironic, but because both the words and the feeling behind them embodied complete confidence in the arms-commander. “I can do a few things others can’t. That’s true of all of you. You’ve seen what a lousy archer I am.” That was accurate enough, because arrows flew farther than Saryn could reach with her senses, unlike the blades she relied upon.

  “Yes, ser.” Hryessa’s voice was pleasantly agreeable.

  Saryn could sense the disagreement behind the words, and she wanted to shake her head. Instead, she said, “Could you talk to the armsmen here in the palace about the best way to avoid Duevek, especially if we have any carts or wagons?”

  “I’ve already asked about maps, ser, and they’ve promised some by tomorrow. They would like to see us gone. I think the maps will arrive.”

  “Good…” Saryn shook her head. “You don’t need me.”

  In return, Hryessa grinned. “It’s not about maps, ser. We need an angel.”

  Less than a glass later, Saryn headed back to her chambers to wash up and change into what served as her dress uniform, although it lacked the adornments she’d seen on other officers the few times she’d left the Roof of the World.

  Just before twilight, the same young lady-in-waiting who had escorted Saryn to meet with the regents reappeared and escorted her to a small dining room on the main floor at the north end of the palace.

  Two figures stood talking inside the chamber, but Gethen and Zeldyan immediately turned.

  “There you are,” offered Zeldyan warmly. “I’m glad you’re joining us.” She moved toward a table that was roughly eight cubits long, but was set with three places, one at the east end, and one on each side. She took the end place and gestured to the one at her left.

  Saryn waited until Zeldyan had started to take her seat before slipping into the chair she had been offered.

  Gethen seated himself last and with a smile. “It’s not often an old man gets to eat with two beautiful women.”

  “Two younger women, at least, and only one of them beautiful,” replied Zeldyan, inclining her head to Saryn.

  Saryn concealed her surprise because she could sense that Zeldyan believed every word. “I fear you are far too modest, Lady.”

  “Always has been,” added Gethen.

  “The red pitcher has red wine, from Father’s vineyards, no less, and the gray has a gentle white, but not from any of our lands.” Zeldyan smiled. “I prefer the red, but the white is good.”

  Saryn poured the red into Zeldyan’s goblet, then into her own, before handing the pitcher across the table to Gethen. The serving girl brought just two items to the table—a pastry-covered casserole dish and a large basket of bread.

  “It’s just a fowl-and-vegetable pie.” Zeldyan handed a large silver serving spoon to Saryn.

  “Thank you.” Saryn served herself an ample helping, then handed the spoon back. She did not eat—or drink—until Zeldyan did, although she sensed nothing amiss in either the pie or the wine. She took several bites and sipped the wine. Both the fowl pie and the wine were good, but certainly not outstanding.

  “Thank you for allowing Nesslek and me to watch you spar.”

  “And me,” added Gethen. “I was watching through a glass from the tower.”

  “What did you see?” asked Saryn, allowing a grin to cross her lips.

  “I saw that Kelthyn could have used the observation,” replied Gethen. “I’ve seen him work out, and he wouldn’t have lasted three strokes against you or the other one.”

  “Hryessa is a guard captain. She is most accomplished with both blade and bow.” Saryn turned to Zeldyan. “Did Nesslek say anything about the sparring?”

  “He seldom does, but he was most reflective.”

  That could mean anything, thought Saryn.

  “He should have noticed.” Gethen shook his head. “Your choice of officers guards your back well, Commander.”

  “Those who accompanied us are almost as good.”

  “Could you train others to be that effective?” asked Zeldyan.

  “In time…if they wanted to work that hard. I don’t think most armsmen do.”

  “Why do yours, then?” asked Zeldyan, with little inquiry in her tone, as if she knew the answer but wanted Saryn to offer it.

  “Our guards know that they have no choice. There is no one to rely upon but themselves. They see that great skill is the best way to assure their future. And, of course, the Marshal does not accept slackers or sloppiness.”

  “Nor do you, I’d wager.” Gethen’s voice was dry.

  “We all do what we must.” Saryn shrugged. “I did not see Lord Kelthyn depart. He must have left after our meeting. If I might ask…how did he seem?”

  Zeldyan laughed, humorlessly. “Kelthyn was not pleased, although he was most polite and circumspect. I’m certain you could tell that.”

  “He did seem less than pleased,” observed Saryn. “I got the impression that he didn’t like being put in a position where he couldn’t disagree without seeming totally unreasonable.”

  “Ah…yes…young Kelthyn always likes to seem reasonable,” said Gethen. “That is so even when he is least reasonable.”

  Saryn could sense the age and fatigue in Gethen, but the older man’s eyes were intent and clear, giving the impression that he was trying to draw out something. “There are always those who cultivate the impression of warmth and reason.”

  “Are you one of those, Commander?”

  “I think not. Although women are supposed to be more devious than men, I have great difficulty in looking for the least obvious path to an objective. No one has ever accused me of great warmth, either.” Saryn smiled at Zeldyan. “Unlike you, who combine warmth and shrewdness.”

  “Shrewdness without power avails one little.” Zeldyan paused, then asked, her tone casual, “Do you think the Suthyans will attack you first…or us?”

  “I do not think they will attack Westwind at all. Not at present, at least. They have seen how costly it would be, and they measure everything by cost. I am not certain that they will attack you, either. Not directly, in any case.”

  Gethen frowned, but Zeldyan nodded.

  “What else can they do that is not direct?” asked Gethen. “They’ve already taken Rulyarth and exact high tariffs on goods coming upriver to us. It also appears they have persuaded the Gallosians to keep traders from the east from traveling to us overland. They are trying to enlist Deryll to their cause as well. What is left?”

  With Gethen’s last words, Zeldyan focused on Saryn.

  “More of what happened to us with the Lord of Duevek, except directed at you and Lady Zeldyan as regents. The old holders are not pleased with matters as they are…are they?” Saryn took a sip of the wine, then another mouthful of the fowl pie.

  “Are they that foolish?” Gethen snorted, then, after a moment, went on. “Of course they are. They think that if they overturn the regency they can reestablish the old ways, with one of them as overlord. Each believes that he will be the one the others will accept.”

  “When all the squabbling and fighting is over, and no one can still agree, and swords remain bloody,” added Zeldyan, “the Suthyan Council will offer to make Lornth part of Suthya. Most of the lesser holders will finally agree after they find they have no golds left, and the Suthyans will then pay them to overturn the handful of larger ones. Those who remain will beg to be part of Suthya just to end the bloodshed.”

  “You paint a dismal picture, daughter.”

  “What other picture is there? Already, half the holders offer excuses rather than their tariffs, so much so that we have half the armsmen that we had five years ago, and that number was but a third of what Sillek took against Westwind and lost.” Zeldyan looked to Saryn. “You see to what state we are reduced when the only one in whom we can trust is the arms-commander of the land that destroyed us.”


  “We did not destroy you, Lady. Your holders did. We did not invade Lornth. We only asked to be left in peace.”

  Zeldyan’s lips tightened, and Saryn wished she had not had to say what she had.

  “That is so, much as it pains me to admit it. Lady Ellindyja, may the demons rend her spirit forever, set all this in motion. I feared it then, and I begged Sillek to stand against his lord-holders. But he did not, and we cannot change that. You had to do what you did to survive, and I cannot change that.” Abruptly, Zeldyan straightened. “We cannot change what will be, and nothing more we say here tonight will alter that.” She lifted her goblet. “Best we enjoy each other’s company. Do tell us what you found of interest on your journey here. Are the ironwoods as desolate as ever?”

  After sensing the pain and frustration within Zeldyan, Saryn offered a smile as warm as she could make it. “I would not call them desolate, but rather severe and forbidding. Majestic in their own fashion. The size of the streams and rivers is also a wonder, because in the heights, they are so small, and yet in Lornth they have grown so large…there are valleys in the lower mountains with little but boulders in them, many standing alone, and some nearly the size of the palace here…” Saryn went on to offer the best travelogue she could, trying to keep her tone light.

  At some point, the serving girl removed the platters and set before each of the three a small pielike dessert consisting of thin leaves of pastry with a mixture of honey and berry jam between. Saryn did enjoy that, as well as the stories Zeldyan told of being a young girl in The Groves.

  In time, some three glasses after she’d entered the small dining room, Saryn made her way back along the empty corridor to her quarters. She had to admit that, despite the earlier part of the dinner, the latter part had been pleasant and that having supper with just three people had been far more enjoyable than eating alone, or than eating amid a score or so in the hall in Tower Black.

  Just how many years had it been since she’d had a small and intimate dinner?

  Later, after undressing, as she lay on the wide bed in the guest chamber, all too awake, she couldn’t help but believe that Lornth looked to be on the verge of collapse or rebellion, if not both. What had she done in promising to help Zeldyan? Even after dealing with Gallos, assuming Ryba’s plans were successful, what could Saryn possibly do?

  What should she do?

  XXVII

  Eightday at the palace was quiet, and although Saryn ate supper again with Zeldyan, but not with Gethen, who had departed for his estates, the lady regent was most careful to keep the talk to matters other than the relations between Lornth and Westwind, the Suthyan threat, and the problems posed by the old holders. Zeldyan did not mention Saryn’s pledge, either, but it hung over the commander like an unseen burnished blade, and she fretted about why she had given her pledge so easily. Ryba certainly would not have. Yet for all her worry…it had felt right, and that nagged at her even more.

  She was both relieved and glad when, late on oneday, the first creaky wagon arrived, bearing barrels of saltpeter and smaller kegs of sulfur. Two more wagons arrived on twoday. Saryn wondered about returning the wagons and the swaybacked horses that pulled them, but Zeldyan insisted that both could be sent back later, whenever practicable.

  Saryn didn’t protest, and on threeday, she and the guards set out, at first retracing the route they had taken previously. The following day, they took a ferry across the river at the narrows to follow a road that, had they gone its full length, would have taken them to Rohrn. After another two days, they turned eastward and eventually recrossed a stone ford north of Henspa. Twilight was turning to evening as they entered the town, but Saryn was still sweating, and she kept having to blot her forehead, while her undertunic was plastered to her body.

  The big innkeeper Essin stood out on the porch of the Black Bull. “I thought you might be back,” he called as he left the porch and walked toward Saryn, still mounted on her gelding. “Same terms as before?”

  “That would be acceptable,” Saryn replied.

  “Ma’s doing poorly, but she told me she wants to talk to you. She said you’d be back. Just come in here when you’re set. I’ll tell the girls to heave to…be a simple supper.”

  “Simple is fine.” Any decent supper they didn’t have to prepare would be welcome, and Essin’s charges were moderate enough that they might actually return to Westwind without using all the golds that Ryba had provided.

  “I’ll tell Ma.” Essin paused. “I was hoping…she’s pretty sick.”

  “I’ll be there,” Saryn promised, “but I’m not like the other angel. I’m not a healer.” What was she, really, besides a pilot who’d discovered a talent for weapons and killing in a strange and magical world she still wasn’t certain she truly understood?

  “Be good for Ma to see you.”

  Saryn could sense the disappointment in the big man, and his concern and love for his mother, but all she could say was, “I’ll be there.” Then she rode around to the stables.

  After making certain that guard details were posted for the wagons and that horses and guards were settled in, as well as after grooming her own gelding, Saryn finally made her way across the rear courtyard and back into the inn where Essin was waiting.

  “Be another half glass or so before supper’s ready,” he announced.

  “That’s fine,” Saryn replied. “Where is your mother?”

  Essin gestured toward the narrow staircase, then started up. Every step creaked under his boots, and the wooden panels on each side of the staircase vibrated as well. Saryn followed several steps behind. By the time she reached the top, Essin was standing by the open door at the end of the hallway to Saryn’s right. She walked toward him, grateful that the floorboards didn’t shake under her boots as they had under his, and followed him into the chamber, some three yards by four.

  The white-haired woman was propped up with pillows in a narrow bed. Her face was drawn, and the circles under her eyes were black. Her eyes remained as intent as Saryn recalled, but her voice was hoarse. “Told Essin you’d be back afore long.” She smothered a cough.

  “Word is that the Lord of Duevek had some difficulty when you passed through his lands.” Essin looked to Saryn expectantly.

  “He blocked the road and said we had no business going to the regents. His undercaptain sent half a company of cavalry against us. They ended up wounded or dead, mostly dead.”

  Jennyleu laughed, a dry, cackling sound. “Coulda told the lord that. Wouldn’t have done any good. None of the men who rule understand.” A racking cough punctuated her words.

  Saryn studied the old woman with her senses, picking up hints of the reddish white chaos she knew was some kind of illness.

  “Essin said you got wagons…”

  “Trading goods from the regents,” Saryn admitted.

  “You going to help them if it comes to that?”

  “Lady Zeldyan seems to be the only one who doesn’t want Westwind destroyed.” That wasn’t quite true, Saryn realized, even as she spoke. Zeldyan might not mind the destruction of Westwind; she just didn’t want Lornth to pay any more for Westwind’s annihilation. “Or to go to the trouble of doing it, anyway.”

  “…don’t like not telling the truth, do you, Angel…?” Another series of coughs racked Jennyleu, so much so that her pale face turned red, then almost gray.

  Saryn found herself stepping forward and grasping the old woman’s forearms. While she was no healer, she had to try to do something. Using the darkness, much as she might have with her blades, she cut away the reddish white that she knew was wound chaos, or infection, but only that, and nothing that felt “physical.” After that, she smoothed and ordered with the blackness.

  A wave of dizziness passed over her, but she straightened, released the older woman’s arms, and stepped back, putting her hand on the footboard of the bed to steady herself.

  Essin looked at her strangely but did not speak.

  “What did
you do?” asked the old woman, after a long silence.

  “Something…I can’t describe, but…I think it will help you get better.” Saryn studied Jennyleu with her senses again. Most of the chaos had vanished, and she had the feeling that the rest was fading.

  “That’s better.” Jennyleu smiled. “I’ll be able to rest now.”

  “You shouldn’t talk anymore,” Saryn said. “Not for a while.”

  “I feel better already.”

  “Ma…you heard the angel. It’s time to rest.”

  “All right…suppose you’ve listened to me more ’n a few times about things like that.” Jennyleu paused, then said, “Feed her good, you hear.”

  “Yes, Ma.” Essin stepped back to the door, then out into the hallway.

  After a last look and a smile at Jennyleu, Saryn followed the innkeeper.

  Once they were down in the front foyer of the inn, Essin turned and looked hard at Saryn. “You said you weren’t a healer.”

  “I’m not. I just know a few things. I helped her a little. She’s a strong lady.”

  “You helped her more than a little.”

  “I hope so, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “She said she wanted to see you when you come again.”

  “I don’t know if that will be soon,” Saryn pointed out. “The last time was years ago.”

  “You didn’t stop here then.”

  “I didn’t know enough to stop in Henspa.” Saryn grinned in the dimness of the foyer, lit by but one oil lamp in a wall sconce. She still felt slightly light-headed.

  “You will next time.” Essin gestured to the dimly lit public room. “You need to eat.”

  She wasn’t about to argue, not as tired as she suddenly felt. Was that because of what she’d done for Jennyleu? Ayrlyn, Istril, and Siret had always said that healing left them exhausted, but Saryn had never thought of herself as a healer. “Lead on, innkeeper.”

  XXVIII

  Late on fiveday, a full eightday after they had reached Henspa, she and the guards—and the wagons—finally pulled up outside the stables at Westwind. Along the way, they’d had to replace one wheel, brace an axle and hope it held, and use the spare mounts to help the drays up the steeper grades. They’d also seen no other travelers, traders or otherwise.