Arms-Commander (32 page)

“You're not…armsmen. You're killers.”

“No,” said Saryn. “We're only killers when people try to kill us or take our land. I offered to use wooden wands against you. I struck you lightly to warn you. You paid no heed. Westwind never attacked Lornth and never attacked Gallos. Both paid no heed and attacked us.”

“But it was a matter of honor.”

“For us, it was a matter of survival. We had nowhere else to go. Survival trumps honor any moment of the eightday.”

“Without honor…there is nothing.” Behind Joncaryl's words was a sense of exasperation…and anticipation.

Saryn sensed someone moving from behind her, and whirled, using Belconyn's momentum to throw the younger brother into the wall. A second movement broke the dagger from his hand. While his hand was limp, Saryn was fairly certain she hadn't broken his wrist, but he wouldn't have much use of the hand for days.

At that moment, Zeldyan and Barcauyn appeared, walking through the archway from the terrace. The lord's eyes went from Belconyn, who was supporting his injured wrist with his good hand, to the dagger on the polished tile floor, then to Joncaryl, whose face bore an expression of anger mixed with shock.

“Both of you. To your quarters. You will remain there until I determine what to do with you. Be grateful that you are still alive.”

Saryn said nothing, but watched both young men as they hurried away. The dagger remained on the polished floor tiles.

“What happened, Commander?” asked Zeldyan, clearly preempting the lord.

“Joncaryl attempted to find out what I knew of wrestling while his brother approached from behind me.” Saryn shrugged. “I tried not to injure Belconyn too much, but his head will ache from where he hit the wall. His wrist should heal. It's not broken.”

“You can tell that?” asked Zeldyan.

“Yes, Lady. If I'm near someone.”

Barcauyn's countenance was ashen. “I must offer my deepest apologies for the unforgivable behavior of my sons.”

Saryn paused a moment. “Lord Barcauyn, I accept your apology, and appreciate your grace in this matter. Also, because Lornth has no experience with women warriors, I understand your sons' failure to understand my abilities at first. What I find…distressing…is not their failure to understand, but their inability or unwillingness to understand once I showed those abilities, and their subsequent anger. I attempted to show Joncaryl what I could do without hurting him. His response was to taunt and belittle me under his breath when we sparred, then to have his brother attack me from behind while he distracted me. Were I a man, they would have accepted my abilities without question, and I hope you will understand that I find that distressing as well.”

“You must admit that it is not common to see a woman of your skills,” ventured Barcauyn.

Saryn could sense a certain irritation, even anger, in the lord and bit back the statements she might have made and nodded politely. “It has not been common in the past, but it will be far more common in the future, and I would hate to see your sons injured or even killed because they did not recognize that women can also be fearsome warriors. I would hope, with all my heart, that Westwind will never have to fight with Lornth again. That is one reason why I am here, so that you and other lords can see the value of Westwind as an ally rather than as an enemy.” She paused and softened her voice. “I am sorry for the injuries to your sons, and for any distress I may have caused you in this matter.”

“Commander.” Barcauyn smiled faintly. “You have my admiration. My distress is as much at myself for failing to understand truly what you represent. You must understand that you are changing the world. That change is hard on those of us who have worked so hard to preserve our heritage.”

“I understand that, Lord Barcauyn, for I have lost my heritage and must make my way in a world as strange to me as the one you fear Westwind may be creating is strange to you.”

“You are a woman, and you talk of making your way.” The lord shook his head. “Women in Lornth, in all of Candar, do not speak so.”

“They have not spoken that way in the past, but they will in the future. Even if I had not come to Lornth, matters would still be changing, because women have seen what other women can do.”

“That may well be, but times of change are not easy for anyone.”

“No, they are not.” Saryn paused, then added, “But they are always far harder on those who stand against what must be.”

“If you will excuse us, Commander,” said Zeldyan gently, “I need a few words with Lord Barcauyn.”

Saryn nodded politely. After they passed, she walked out to the west terrace. It was empty…and unlikely to see anyone but her while she remained there.

Supper on sevenday was quiet and private, with only Lord Barcauyn, his consort, Lady Zeldyan, and Saryn. The atmosphere was also formal and chill. During the entire meal, Lady Barcauyn said fewer than twenty words, even in response to Zeldyan's questions. Not a single word was directed to Saryn, who sensed a smoldering anger from the lady, clearly directed at her.

After all the events of sevenday, Saryn was glad to be up early on eightday, and even happier once they had ridden out of the villa and through the still-quiet town of Arkyn, headed eastward. By midmorning, they were headed north on another clay road, slightly wider, but no more traveled, under a slightly hazy sky, with a warm breeze at their backs. Saryn turned in the saddle, slightly, and asked, “What did Lord Barcauyn say to you, if anything, after his sons' actions and yesterday's…events. He was very polite at supper. Excessively.”

“We talked about what the other holders might do in regard to the regency and with regard to the Suthyan meddling. He is still greatly concerned about Deryll and the threat he sees in the Jeranyi. And, among other things, he apologized several times for offending my champion.” Zeldyan smiled wryly. “It appears as though that might be your role. He said that never had he seen someone so small who was so deadly.”

“He should see the Marshal, then,” Saryn said.

“He understands that you could have killed Joncaryl, or crippled him for life.”

“The problem is that Joncaryl doesn't understand that. Nor does Belconyn. I don't think they ever will.” Saryn glanced at the road ahead, but there the only riders were those of their party, and not a wagon was in sight anywhere. “Were the girls on the terrace his daughters?”

“They were. There is an older daughter who is consorted to the younger son of Lord Mortryd, who holds Tryenda.”

“I was never actually introduced to his consort,” Saryn pointed out. “Was that because she would have refused such an introduction?”

“I'm certain she would have,” replied Zeldyan. “She is…overly devoted…to her sons.”

“So her presence at supper was by command of her consort?”
His way of declaring that he is the one who is lord of the holding.

“That can often happen in Lornth. More than once I did not speak at a meal when Sillek became overlord.”

“Women must obey, but they don't have to pretend to like it?”

“I fear that is only true of those who are lord-holder born.”

With what Zeldyan had said earlier about the relations between lord-holders, that made sense. A consort could afford to express her dislike passively because the lord might still need the support of her father or brother or cousin…or not wish to alienate them unnecessarily.

“Joncaryl would have chopped me up if he could have,” Saryn pointed out, “and he and his brother would have knifed me in the back hall. And Lady Barcauyn is angry at me?”

“She worries that he may have to fight for the remainder of his life, and will die young because he was bested by a woman, one far smaller than he. Even Barcauyn worried about that. His hope is that your prowess will become known widely enough that Joncaryl will profit from surviving your blades. Lady Barcauyn is less certain that such will happen.”

For a moment, Saryn almost felt sorry for Barcauyn. The lord was caught between a chauvinistic tradition, an arrogant and spoiled son, and an excessively partisan consort and overly devoted mother. Still…“Lord Barcauyn was the one who pressed for the sparring match, and Joncaryl was totally insufferable. If I had demurred, Westwind would have no credibility, and I'd be of no support to you,” Saryn pointed out.

“But you would not be bested by any man. You would die before allowing that. Is that not true?”

Am I that stiff-necked? Or is it just because this frigging place treats women so badly?

“Is it not true?” asked Zeldyan again, gently.

“I'd like to think I'd have enough sense to recognize anyone who was superior, man or woman. The Marshal is a better warrior than I, and I'd be foolish not to acknowledge that.”

“But you will not be demeaned by those who are lesser in ability.”

“I'd rather not be,” Saryn admitted.

“Rather not?” Zeldyan offered a smile that was enigmatic, but behind it, Saryn sensed more—that Zeldyan believed Saryn inflexible and unwilling to submit to any man in anything.

Saryn just shrugged. After they had ridden another hundred yards or so, she asked, “What do you think Barcauyn will do?”

“Angry as his consort may be, he will not move against me. Not so long as you remain in Lornth.”

That's just frigging fine. To keep these chauvinist idiots from undermining the regency, I have to stay in Lornth sparring against idiots with crowbars and sweating my way through summer and harvest…and who knows how much longer.

“Tell me about Lord Maeldyn,” suggested Saryn, “and his holding.”

“I have not talked with him often, and not in some time. He always seemed a man who kept his counsel to himself. I would judge him as one not to make hasty decisions.”

“That doesn't sound too bad.”

“No…but sometimes those who do not wish to make hasty decisions make no decisions at all, or make decisions by not making them.”

Saryn had seen enough of that in her life. “What about his heirs?”

“I know little of them, save that he has at least one son and two daughters.”

“And the holding?”

“Unlike many, there is more than one town, but all three that might be called such are smaller than most holding seats. The largest is but half the size of Carpa—”

“That's your father's holding?”

“It would have been Fornal's, but it will go to Nesslek, now.”

Zeldyan's words confirmed that her brother had had no children—or no sons, at least.

“I'm sorry. What else about Quaryn?”

“The largest town is Ryntal, and Maeldyn's keep overlooks the town. There are large woods in the hills to the north, and swamps beyond them…”

Saryn listened intently.

Several glasses before they reached Ryntal on threeday, Zeldyan dispatched one of the couriers traveling with them to alert Lord Maeldyn to their arrival. To Saryn's eyes, as they rode into the town in late afternoon, Ryntal didn't look all that much smaller than Lornth itself. Like most of the towns she had seen in Candar, it was located on a small river, although that description of the watercourse was charitable. Most of the dwellings incorporated more of a mixture of brick and timber, suggesting that good building stone was harder to come by—or that brick and timber were more readily available. The buildings were mostly neat and well maintained, and there were small barge piers on the river.

“Does the river flow into the one at Rulyarth?” asked Saryn.

“I don't know the name of this river, but it does flow into the Yarth. That's how Maeldyn gets his wool and hides to the traders there. Carpa is also served by the Yarth, and Father sends his wines down it. He used to, anyway. With the way the Suthyans have been refusing to pay what the vintage is worth, he's been aging it more, hoping that prices will increase.”

“Has that worked?”

“Not so far. He took to drying the lower-quality grapes and sending the kegs of raisins to Gallos by the northern route. He didn't get as much, but it kept him from having to take what ever the Suthyans offered for the wine.”

Saryn could see the square ahead, and while there looked to be a raised brick-and-stone platform in the middle, no statue graced the square. “Do they use the square as a marketplace at times, or…?” She wasn't quite sure how to finish the question.

“Some towns do. I don't know about Ryntal.”

Saryn could see that more than a few people along the streets were beginning to look at the riders, especially when they saw Saryn and Zeldyan, and the Westwind guards directly behind them. She could catch some of the murmurs and words.

“…that's the Lady Regent…”

“…who's with her…woman wearing blades…don't see that…”

“…whole bunch of armed women…”

As they rode into the center square, Saryn scanned the buildings, seeing a chandlery, a cooperage, even a fuller's, and, on the west side, a gracious-looking inn with wide porches supported by yellow-brick pillars. The roof over the third story was made of pale yellow tiles, and the shutters and trim were also painted yellow. Not surprisingly, the signboard showed a yellow house, and the words beneath read
Yellow Inn.

The main street continued northward beyond the outskirts of the town. Less than a kay farther, a paved road angled up a low rise to a mansion surrounded by a low wall, a three-story dwelling that faced generally west, with covered porches on all sides, except the colonnaded front, and on all three levels. When they reached the crest of the road, Saryn could see that the rise was the south end of a long ridge. Stables and outbuildings flanked a stretch of yellow-brick pavement extending along the ridge for half a kay. Beyond the last of the structures began a forest that not only covered the ridge but spilled down both sides and continued northward into the higher hills. A gray-haired woman stood behind the railing of the lowest porch on the north side, and a man dressed in brown livery stood on the pavement below the porch railing.

“Welcome to Quaryn, Lady Regent!” called the woman in a loud and cheerful voice. “If you and the commander would care to dismount there, Feiltyr will see to your mounts and conduct your officers and armsmen to the guest barracks.”

In less than a quarter glass, Saryn found herself standing in a second-level corner room with a cool—at least for Lornth—breeze blowing though the open windows. She could see the rear courtyard, with a fountain that fed watering troughs, where both Zeldyan's armsmen and the Westwind guards had almost finished stalling their mounts and were being directed toward the barracks flanking the stables. She turned from the window and toward the curtained nook of her room, which contained an actual tub, half-filled with warm water, and a table piled with soft towels.

She did not resist that temptation, even washing her hair, although she was thankful that she had kept it barely longer than the shipboard military style she'd grown accustomed to years before. She took her time in washing and dressing in a clean uniform, but when she did descend to the main level of the mansion, she was met by a black-haired and black-eyed young woman.

“Commander, I'm Ilys. Mother asked me to escort you to the porch. It's much more comfortable out there.”

Saryn followed the lithe Ilys along the wide central hallway, past a formal dining chamber on one side and a very formal sitting room on the other, then out through a set of double doors onto the porch. Lady Maeldyn rose from where she had been sitting.

“Arms-commander…”

“Lady Maeldyn, your graciousness—”

“Anyna…please call me Anyna. The thought of the Arms-Commander of Westwind calling me ‘Lady' is absolutely preposterous.”

Saryn couldn't help smiling, not so much at Anyna's words but at the directness and truthfulness behind them. Anyna meant exactly what she said. “Then…Anyna, thank you, and I am Saryn. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated the thoughtfulness of the bath awaiting me.”

“Nonsense. After a long dusty ride in the summer, that's a courtesy for anyone. We even have showers in the barracks…I hope that…we did put your guards in a different barracks…”

“Showers are all that we have in Westwind,” Saryn said. “They'll be as grateful as I am.”

“Good. That's settled.” Anyna gestured to the cushioned chair across a low table from her. “You don't mind if Ilys joins us?”

“I'd be pleased.”

Anyna smiled, and so did her daughter, as Ilys took the more straight-backed chair to the right of Saryn.

“Zeldyan will be here shortly, but I would like to ask you a few questions if I might.”

“Certainly.”

“Is it true that you gave Barcauyn's loutish son a thorough drubbing?”

“Ah…” Had Zeldyan already told Anyna that, or had word reached the lady some other way? “I tried to be gentle with him, but…in the end I had to break his jaw and dump him on the stone before he understood.”

Both mother and daughter laughed, almost unrestrainedly.

Saryn wasn't quite certain how to respond.

“We're a bit different here,” Anyna said after she stopped laughing. “We have mountain cats and giant boars here. I insisted that Maeldyn train the girls, as well as Chaeldyn, with arms. Ilys is almost as good as her brother, and Abaya will be at least that good if she stays with it.”

“Could you work with me?” asked Ilys.

“If you're willing to use wooden wands.”

“Please don't say you want to use real blades,” interjected Zeldyan from the door to the porch. “That was Joncaryl's first mistake…of many.” She crossed the porch and settled into the cushioned chair on Anyna's left.

“Do all guards train with the wooden blades?” asked Ilys.

“Until they're very good, and sometimes beyond,” replied Saryn. “The Marshal and I only spar against each other with wands.”

“Is that because you are good?”

“Well…we would prefer not to kill or injure each other.”

“Wooden wands,” said Anyna. “Definitely.” She turned slightly to face Zeldyan. “When I received your message, Lady Zeldyan, I sent a rider to summon Maeldyn, but he could not possibly return before tomorrow afternoon. That is perfectly acceptable to me because I never have had the opportunity to meet you, and never would I have a chance to meet someone like the arms-commander. Maeldyn would worry that you would corrupt me, Commander, but I'm too old for that kind of corruption…” A warm but light laugh followed those words. “When the Westwind…issue came up years ago, I told Maeldyn that any bunch of women who were desperate enough to fight were to be avoided at all costs. He did not believe me, totally, but he was wise enough to follow my advice. He also refused to treat with Trader Baorl when that snake slithered through here late in spring.”

“I understand that Lord Henstrenn received the trader,” Saryn said.

“That does not surprise me. Henstrenn thinks he should hold Lornth…begging your pardon, Lady Zeldyan, and he would treat with the white demons if he thought it would help him become overlord. The Suthyans are almost that bad.”

“Kelthyn seems little better, from what little I've seen,” suggested Saryn.

“With the notable exception of your consort,” began Zeldyan dryly, “I would suspect that ambition of at least half the holders in Lornth.”

“Ambition often grows most unrestrainedly in those with the least ability to manage it,” replied Anyna.

At that moment, another figure stepped out from the doorway onto the porch—a much younger girl bearing a tray. She carried the tray out to the small table before her mother and set it down there. On the tray were three crystal carafes and five fluted crystal glasses.

“Thank you, Abaya.”

Abaya nodded politely and took the chair beside her sister.

“I can offer you white, amber, or red wine. The amber and red come from our vineyards, and the white from those at Hendyn. All are good, but I personally prefer the red.”

“The red,” replied Zeldyan.

“Red, please,” said Saryn.

“And I know what you two want,” said Anyna with a smile, looking at her daughters. As she lifted the carafe of red wine, she looked to Saryn. “I hope you won't mind, but I would so like it if you would tell us about Westwind, what it's like on the Roof of the World, and what the Marshal is like.”

“I'll do my best,” replied Saryn. “Westwind itself sits in a valley sheltered on the north by a ridge. The most important building is Tower Black….”