Arms-Commander (10 page)

“Would you like to question the Gallosian now?” Saryn asked quietly.

“I'll do it this afternoon in the common room before the evening meal, with at least a squad of guards present…and you, of course, and either Istril or Siret, whoever happens to be more available.”

“Yes, ser.”

“That will be all.”

Saryn nodded, then turned and made her way back down the cold stone steps of Tower Black, wondering, as always, just what Ryba had foreseen and exactly why she intended to send Saryn to Lornth.

Just past mid afternoon, Saryn sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the hearth in the main-floor great room. To her right was Llyselle, and to her left sat Murkassa.

“…the scouts reported that half the Suthyan party took the road to Lornth and that the trader was with that group,” Llyselle said. “The others took the northern road, the one to Middlevale, which avoids most of the Lornian lands on the way to Rulyarth and Armat.”

“The trader is traveling through Lornth…or part of it. Have you told the Marshal?”

“No, ser. We just got word.”

“I'll tell her, then, after we finish. What else did they discover?”

“Nothing else about the Suthyans. We'll need to send a team to repair some of the bridges…”

After Llyselle finished her report, Saryn walked up the stone steps to Ryba's study.

Ryba turned from where she stood at the window. “What else is it, Saryn? More about the Gallosian?”

“No, ser. We may have another problem. Half the Suthyans, and the high trader, but not Suhartyn, took the road to Lornth.”

The Marshal nodded, almost as if she already knew. “That's not surprising. Trader Baorl will try to discover any weaknesses, while ostensibly trading, and will be able to give the Suthyan Council a more current report on Lornth's strengths and weaknesses. Doubtless, he will also spread untruths about Westwind.”

“That won't make matters any easier for me…if you're still planning on sending me.”

“I am, especially after what you just encountered. We'll talk about that later.”

Saryn could sense that Ryba didn't want to say more, and wouldn't. She also knew that pressing the Marshal would only make matters worse. “Yes, ser.”

“Don't worry about it, Saryn.” With those words, Ryba turned back to look out the window.

Saryn made her way down the steps, then to the smithy to see how much progress had been made on blades.

Later, just about a glass before the evening meal, Huldran and Ydrall brought Dealdron up from the lower level, the same way all guards with injured legs were carried, in a basket seat suspended from a wooden yoke, each end of the yoke borne by one of the two smiths. They set him on a bench facing the cold hearth…and Ryba. Saryn stood on the right side of the wooden chair where Ryba sat, with Siret on the left.

Dealdron's eyes took in the trio one after the other—the arms-commander with her reddish golden brown hair, the black-haired and stern-featured Marshal, in silver-gray and black, and the silver-haired healer. The Marshal surveyed the wounded man without speaking.

After a momentary hesitation, the Gallosian bent forward, held the position for a moment, then straightened, looking to Ryba, then to Siret, and finally to Saryn. “Sers…most honored Angel and Marshal, I would offer more respect, but I cannot rise or bow without falling.”

“That is obvious.” Ryba's voice was cool. “‘Marshal' or ‘ser' will do.”

Dealdron inclined his head. “Yes, Marshal.”

“What did you do before you became an armsman in Gallos?”

“Ser…I was not an armsman. I was an assistant ostler to the Prefect's Cavalry.”

“Before that?”

“My father is a plasterer. I was working as his apprentice, but…times were hard, and my older brother, he was needed more, and I had helped at the local stable.”

“Why were you with the armsmen who were pretending to be brigands?”

“The majer sent me because they needed someone to take care of the horses. He did not want to use armsmen as ostlers.”

“Did anyone say that they might have to fight the guards of Westwind?”

“Ah…”

Again, Ryba waited.

“The undercaptain said that, if they came across any, they would take great pleasure in killing them. He also said that was not the main task. He said we were to rob and frighten away all the travelers and to kill those who would not be frightened.”

“Why did you allow the women travelers from Neltos to be ravaged and killed?”

“I had no way to stop it, ser, only a belt dagger.”

“Did you know that was what the undercaptain had in mind?”

“No, ser. Not until he said…that he didn't care what happened to them.”

Saryn caught sight of several nods among the guards, nods not of approval, but acknowledgment of the attitude of the late undercaptain.

“You had no idea that he felt that way?”

Ryba looked at the Gallosian impassively, waiting.

Finally, Dealdron spoke, slowly. “I had heard that he was…hard…on women, but I never heard that he had injured one.”

“Beyond a slap or a bruise or two, you mean?” Faint irony tinged Ryba's words.

“I did not know he would kill or order women to be…abused.”

“Did you think he might?”

“I did not know, ser. I had only taken care of the mounts before the majer sent me with the undercaptain.”

“I asked what you thought.”

“I did not think about it, ser. Not until I saw what was happening.”

Saryn could sense that Dealdron truly believed that, and that the young man truly had not understood the situation with the travelers until he believed he could do nothing. Her eyes took in Istril, who slipped into the chamber and along the wall until she was some five yards back from the Marshal.

Although Ryba had to have seen Istril, her expression did not change as she asked Dealdron, “You expect me to believe that you encountered no other travelers until you came across that group?”

“We saw tracks, but they hid in the woods or in other places before we could see where they had gone. The undercaptain was not going to split up the squad chasing peasants through the trees. He thought someone might ambush us.”

“You were whipped. How did that happen?”

“We had ridden hard the first days out from Fenard. I told the undercaptain that he was being hard on the horses and that they would not carry us well if he kept pressing them. He laughed. He had his men tie me to a tree, and he whipped me.”

“You stood up for horses…and not for women?”

“Ser…the first time I crossed the undercaptain, I was whipped. I did not think I would have lasted so long as the travelers if I had said anything.”

“So very courageous of you.”

“Courage is useless when you are dead, ser. I could not have helped them.”

True as that was, Saryn had doubts as to whether Ryba would see it that way.

Ryba looked to Siret. The healer nodded.

“How did your leg get broken?”

“I was trying to calm the horses after the attack. I was in the wrong place. Everyone was dying, and I crawled to a tree. I thought I might climb it, but the branches were too high.”

“How do you think other Gallosians would fare against the guards?”

“Most would not, I think. The Prefect's Company would do best. They would lose, but they would kill many of your guards.”

“Is there any other company that good?”

“Lord Arthanos is training two special companies. That is what I have heard some say.”

“What do you know about Lord Arthanos?”

“I have only seen him. I have not tended his mounts. He has never spoken to me. I have never handled the mounts of those companies he has commanded.”

“A cautious reply. What have you heard about him?”

“He is brave and capable with both blade and bow. His voice can be heard above men and horses. He does not accept failure. He does not like excuses. He is said to be fair…mostly.”

“When is he not fair?” pressed Ryba.

“I have only heard—”

“When?” The single word was like a shaft of ice.

Dealdron swallowed. “He is fond of wine, ser.”

“And he is less than fair when he has had too much?”

“That is what is said. I do not know that from what I have seen.”

“There seems to be a great deal you have not seen,” observed Ryba.

“I have heard that angels can tell when a man does not speak the truth. I would not wish to say what I do not know.”

Ryba glanced to Siret, who nodded once more.

“How many men does he have in arms?”

“It is said that he will have ninety companies…”

“Who are the best captains in the Prefect's forces…

“How many companies are ready to fight…

“How many archers…”

Ryba's questions seemed endless, but the Marshal took less than a full glass before she stopped and looked squarely at Dealdron. “You may remain here in Westwind for now. Once you are healed, then we will talk again, and we will see what sort of man you are.” Ryba turned to Saryn. “Have him eat with the junior guards but at the lower end of the table.”

“Yes, ser.”

Ryba lowered her voice, and Saryn bent forward to catch the words. “Have Duessya talk to him about horses. And have Siret talk to him about building. See what they think.” Ryba turned from Saryn, stood, then said to the assembled guards, “I thought you should hear what Dealdron had to say. Please share what you learned with those who were not here.” In the silence that followed, her eyes ran across the group. For the briefest moment, her gaze stopped at Istril, who stood at the side of the chamber behind the guards. Istril met Ryba's eyes without turning away. Neither spoke.

Then Ryba smiled pleasantly and strode between the tables to the back of the chamber and out into the foyer, to return to her study until the last seating for the evening meal.

Saryn waited until the Marshal was well clear of the chamber before she spoke. “You're dismissed to your regular duties if you have any at the moment.”

As the guards rose, Huldran looked to Saryn.

“Move him to the table where he'll sit. He can wait up here for half a glass.”

“Yes, ser.”

Saryn watched as the two smiths picked up the Gallosian. She could sense the pain from him as they lifted him under each arm and carried him to the end of the table farthest from the hearth, not that it made any difference with no fire. Then she walked toward Istril.

The healer said nothing until Saryn stopped less than a yard away. “She knows you're trying to get around her.” Istril's words were barely a murmur.

“She always knows,” replied Saryn. “That's why she's the Marshal.” What she didn't voice were the questions that rose in her thoughts: Was knowing always enough? And how much did Ryba's knowing restrict what she would try or accept?

Right after morning muster on the causeway outside Tower Black, Saryn hurried up the stone road to the smithy. While the starflowers at the edge of the fields were almost in full bloom, before long they would be lost in the grasses, leaving only the tall and individual stalks of the bloodflowers in easy sight. Behind Saryn, the junior guards moved to the lower exercise field and took their positions for the morning arms drills. Even the handful of older women who would never be guards took part in the basic drills, both for reasons of fitness and in case of undetected marauders, or the white demons forbid, an attack on Westwind itself.

Saryn pushed aside that thought as she reached the smithy.

The forges were hot enough already that the building was more than comfortably warm when Saryn stepped under the stone lintel of the entry door. Huldran had just set down her hammer as Ydrall returned something to the forge to reheat.

“How is the bow project coming?” asked Saryn.

“We've tested the new bow against the composite ones,” offered Huldran.

“And?”

“Why don't you go see? Falynna just left with the second one to try it out at the range.”

Saryn could sense a certain satisfaction from the smith. Was the horn bow just somewhat better than the short yew bows, or was it equal to the composite bows Nylan had forged? Or equal to a long yew bow? Or somewhere in between? “You're pleased.”

“I'm hopeful,” replied Huldran. “It was more work than we thought, but Falynna figured it out.”

Saryn managed not to frown. They didn't need weapons that took forever to forge or fabricate. “That sounds like a lot of effort for just one bow.”

Huldran shook her head. “If it works, it won't be that hard to produce a goodly number of bows each year. Figuring out how to do it was the problem.”

“Let's hope it works out.” Saryn turned, walking swiftly out of the smithy and continuing up the road. A narrow gully was forming on the left side of the road, caused by snowmelt runoff. The junior guards would have to build up the outside edge of the runoff channel. Some hundred yards uphill from the smithy, Saryn followed the narrow stone path westward until she reached the archery range. A sandy-haired guard stood at the edge of the range.

“I thought you were following me,” said Falynna, a stocky and muscular guard whose head barely reached to Saryn's shoulder. “So I waited.”

“That's the bow?” Saryn studied the double-curved weapon.

“That it is, Commander. And a sweet weapon she is, almost as good as the mage-made weapons, and better for us, I think, because we can make more like her.”

“How quickly?”

“That's the one problem. This one took over a year. We can get enough horn and sinew for fifty to a hundred every year, but the setting time should be almost a year.”

Saryn winced. More bows next year wouldn't help deal with Arthanos now. Still…a number of good bows would make a big difference over time. “So we could equip all the guards in the next four or five years.”

“I would think so.” Falynna extended the already-strung bow. “Would you like to try?”

“No, thank you. You're far better with the bow.”

“Then we'll see.” Falynna gestured uphill toward the figure made of twisted branches in the form of a mounted armsman. The upper part was securely fitted with mail breastplate and helmet. She lifted the bow, nocked the shaft, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion.

Saryn saw and sensed the shaft slam through the middle of the breastplate.

Falynna half turned. “Through the plate at a hundred yards. Now, we'll see about two hundred.” The archer walked westward, down the slight slope.

Saryn walked with her. At a marker post, Falynna stopped and turned.

Saryn looked back up the long grassy slope. The target figure seemed so small, yet Falynna thought she could not only hit the target, but possibly penetrate the iron breastplate.

The archer loosed another shaft that arced uphill, then slashed downward with enough force that the entire target shivered as the arrowhead cut through the iron of the breastplate.

“That'll do.” Falynna's words were matter-of-fact.

“We won't be in many places where we'll have a clear line of fire for more than that.”

“That's true. It's not like the grasslands,” observed Falynna. “We will need arrows with longer shafts with these bows. I couldn't use a full draw because the shaft wasn't long enough.”

Strike harder than penetrating plate at two hundred yards? “How far?”

“Farther than I can aim accurately. Close to four hundred yards.”

“You've done a great job,” Saryn said. “You and Huldran. Mostly you, I believe.”

“Huldran did help, with the core,” replied Falynna, “and with the glue. We can't get enough fish for fish glue. Huldran found a way to combine rabbit skin, hide, and resin from the dwarf blue pines into something that doesn't dissolve in water once it sets.”

“We'll need as many as you two can make,” said Saryn.

“I figured as much, ser.”

“Thank you.” The arms-commander turned from Falynna and began to walk back up the slope. In time, the bows would make a huge difference, but would they have that time?

After leaving the archery range, Saryn took the path farther uphill to the quarries beyond the stables—a squarish area cut from hard reddish rock. The red stone was not quite so hard as the black granite from which Nylan had carved out the building stones for Tower Black, carefully enough that the pillared spaces he had left still served as Westwind's stables.

As Saryn neared the quarry, the sound of hammers, those of guards working down in the quarry and the measured blows of a stonecutter nearer to Saryn, grew louder. At the northeast edge of the quarry, Saryn stood in the shadows of the cliff, watching Siret as the healer, who was also a stonecutter, worked. The blackness that had surrounded Nylan when he had worked either stone or iron gathered around Siret as well, if not quite so intensely as it had around the engineer. On the other hand, Saryn had the feeling that Siret's techniques with the hammer and chisels were more deft. But then, she'd had more time to practice than Nylan had when Saryn had last observed the engineer years ago.

Abruptly, Siret set down the hammer and looked toward the shadows.

Saryn stepped forward across the cut-stone lip of the quarry to where Saryn stood.

“Do you need something, ser?” asked Siret.

“I was just observing,” said Saryn. “You're working the stone the way the engineer did, maybe even better.”

“I don't think so, ser,” replied Siret, not looking directly at the commander, but not actually looking away, either.

“I do. I've seen you both.” Saryn let the silence hang between them for a moment. “You've never said anything about it.”

“What is there to say?” Siret lifted the hammer, struck the chisel, and an improbably long wedge of stone split away from the block. She turned the stone on the flat ledge she was using as a work surface, then struck again. In what seemed moments, a dressed stone rested there.

Two guards immediately hurried over from where they were stacking rough blocks and carried the dressed stone to the wagon that waited at the end of the road up from the stables.

“Just as Nylan built Tower Black,” Saryn said, “you'll build the rest of Westwind.”

“I'm not looking for that. I'm looking for a safe future for Kyalynn. That means a bigger stronghold. That takes stones and healthy women.” Siret waited as the two guards returned and lugged a rough oblong of stone up and set it on the ledge.

After the guards had walked down into the quarry to fetch more rough blocks, Saryn asked, “What do you think about Dealdron?”

“His leg is healing. Your guards did a good job of splinting it.”

“That wasn't what I meant. You're one of the few who can sense…you know what I mean. Will he fit into Ryba's plans, do you think?”

“You can tell if people tell the truth, Commander.”

“Feelings are harder for me.”

Siret looked at the woman who had been a UFA command pilot. “Weren't they always, ser?”

“You're suggesting something.” Saryn offered a grin.

“To heal or work metal or stone…you have to feel. If you let yourself feel too much, you lose your effectiveness as a commander and a warrior, like the engineer did.”

Saryn hadn't seen that Nylan had lost much effectiveness, not until after he'd destroyed thousands, then conveniently collapsed. “That may be, but what about Dealdron?”

“He'll work out fine if you don't ignore him.” Siret emphasized the “you” just slightly.

“Why me?”

“He believes in earned loyalty. You've earned it. So far, no one else has.”

Saryn didn't care for the implications of Siret's words, but she had to accept what the healer sensed and knew. “Have you talked to him about building techniques?”

“He knows some things we don't. He's also afraid that he wasn't that good a plasterer and that we'll find that out.”

“Since we don't know anything about it, that might be difficult.” Saryn's words were dry. “But don't mention that to him.”

“I didn't, but he knows enough that he'll find out.”

“That can't be helped, can it?” Saryn laughed. “He'll figure it out anyway if he hasn't already. There's not any plasterwork anywhere in Westwind. He'll see that, sooner or later.”

Siret replied with a half smile.

“Can you teach anyone else to cut stones the way you do?”

“None of the locals…Oh, they can handle the hammer and chisel, but they don't sense where to strike and at the right angles. Daerona is a decent mason and a stone setter.” Siret paused. “The one who's likely to be the best is Aemra. She likes it, and she comes up here and helps me in the afternoons.”

“She's barely ten.”

“She's better at it than anyone else.”

“Does Ryba know?”

“She may, but I haven't told her. Neither has Istril. Istril'd be just as happy to have her daughter as a stonecutter. Aemra's also artistic.” Siret walked to the end of the rock shelf, where she bent down and lifted an oblong of stone.

Saryn swallowed. The front side bore a sculpted face—that of Istril, although the hair was barely roughed in place, as was the neck. Even so, Istril's grace—and something else, perhaps a trace of the pain that seemed to go with healing—was embodied in the stone.

“Aemra did that?”

“No one else. It's to be a present. Istril hasn't seen it.”

“You might have her work on a bust of Ryba as well.”

“She wants to finish this one first before she does. She is only ten, Saryn.”

The arms-commander nodded. Why was it that everything connected with the engineer created complications, even a daughter he'd never seen?