Arms-Commander (4 page)

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 down all the flights of stairs to the tower's lowest level.

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

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.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good. Round up the other two and take your positions. Not a word…and you cannot let them see you.”

Dyliess turned and hurried up the steps.

Saryn waited several moments before crossing the black-stone foyer. “Everything is in readiness, Marshal.”

“Except for my daughter and her accomplices.”

“She wanted the trio to be part of the demonstrations?”

Ryba nodded. “It would do no good, as we both know.”

“It might frighten them into building an alliance with everyone against us, you think?”

“That's possible. Right now, the rulers of those lands bordering the Westhorns all have the idea that disaffected women from their lands and elsewhere comprise the majority of Westwind. They can accept that, if reluctantly. If they see that we're able to actively train and develop another generation in addition to those who flee, that will intensify their opposition. Right now, that's outside their belief structure. They just don't think that way, and I'd like to leave it like that as long as possible.” There was the briefest pause before the Marshal added, “And please don't tell me that we can't keep training youngsters if they aren't born here. You're right about men, but I don't have to like it.”

Saryn understood those words were the greatest concession she'd get from Ryba on that.

A single horn triplet echoed down from the upper levels of the tower.

“It won't be long now before the Suthyans are here,” Saryn said.

Ryba and Saryn walked from the base of the stairs across the foyer, halting just short of the closed ironbound door that afforded access to the causeway where the Suthyan envoy and his escorts would rein up. Only when the Suthyans were in position would the two women step out to greet the functionary and his entourage.

“He has two squads of troopers.” Ryba wore a silver-gray tunic, belted in black, above black trousers and boots.

“That's enough to protect him and not enough to be considered a challenge.”

“It's also an expression of their beliefs. They're traders who'd rather not spend any unnecessary golds. In the end, they'll be easier to handle than Arthanos.”

“Because they'll weigh the cost of losing men against the dubious value of controlling inhospitable territory, while Arthanos will fight to maintain the myth of masculine superiority?”

Ryba nodded. “But traders are more likely to deal in treachery because it costs fewer golds.”

The tower door opened, and Llyselle stepped into the foyer. “The envoy is here, Marshal.”

The Marshal stepped forward, and Saryn followed, a pace back. Once outside the tower, Ryba halted on the wide single stone step above the stone-paved causeway. Saryn stood by her left shoulder and Llyselle by her right.

Suhartyn and a half score of Suthyans were reined up on the causeway, with guards on each side. The remainder of the Suthyan force was reined up on the road leading to the stables. Saryn had also taken the precaution of stationing several archers inside the tower windows overlooking the causeway.

For a moment, Ryba said nothing. She just stood there, radiating authority. Then she spoke. “Welcome to Westwind, Suhartyn, as envoy and honored guest. While we can provide but austere hospitality, that we do offer.”

“I am pleased to be here, Marshal. All have heard of Westwind. All know that the only entry is as a guest, and we look forward to learning more about the Roof of the World.”

“We will be pleased to let you see Westwind.” Ryba smiled. “Once you have had time to settle in the guest cottage and your men in the auxiliary barracks, we will be offering you some demonstrations on the arms field that I am most certain you will find entertaining.”

“Entertaining, Marshal? Or of great interest?” Suhartyn offered a smile that was half-pleasant and half-ironic.

“We would hope that you would find it both interesting and entertaining. After that, your men will be fed, and after that you and your closest advisors will join me and mine.”

“You are most gracious, Marshal…”

Saryn sensed that Suhartyn had expected Westwind to be far more elaborate than he had found it and that he had expected a far grander welcome, perhaps because of all the rumors that had filtered across Candar in the past years.

“Grace we can provide, most honored Suhartyn, but expansive and elaborate banquets are limited here on the Roof of the World. But then, when we arrived…there was nothing here. In another ten years you will not recognize it.” Ryba gestured. “My guards will escort you, and, in a glass or so, we will meet on the arms field for some diversion.”

Suhartyn bowed from the saddle. “We look forward to that, and to learning more about Westwind, for there must be far more here than meets the eye.”

“You will learn what you need to, and very little will escape your eyes. Of that, we are most certain.” Ryba inclined her head.

Saryn said nothing until the Suthyans and the two guard companies were well out of earshot, riding slowly up the stone road west of Tower Black. “I'd like to see how that pampered trader and his men would fare up here in winter.”

“About as well as I'd fare in Armat in midsummer,” Ryba replied dryly. “Is everything in place?”

“All the targets are set, and Hryessa's first squad will mount up once everyone is gathered on the field. The other companies will be deployed in and around the tower and the stables, just to make sure that our guests behave.”

“I'll leave you, and I'll join you when the envoy heads down to the arms field.”

Saryn nodded and took her leave.

 

The sun was approaching the western horizon, seemingly barely a hand above the highest peaks, turning the glistening ice needle that was Freyja into shimmering golden white, when Suhartyn, flanked by four armsmen, walked onto the arms field. Ryba and Saryn stood waiting with ten guards from Llyselle's second squad. Behind the envoy and his guards followed four other better-dressed men, also with guards. All wore heavy winter leather jackets, unlike the riding jackets of the Westwind contingent. Two of the four Suthyans following the envoy wore uniforms, and two wore more ornate riding garments.

“We are here at your pleasure, Marshal.” Standing before Ryba, Suhartyn was slightly shorter and considerably more rotund. His ginger beard was well trimmed and shot with gray, and his wary eyes were guarded by dark pouches beneath. His voice was high, not quite unpleasant. “What are we about to behold?”

Saryn felt Suhartyn's company would prove wearying over time.

The Marshal gestured to the south end of the arms practice field, a good half kay from Tower Black and the stone road up to the stables. Ten woven brush-and-wood targets, each roughly the size and shape of a mounted armsman, stood solidly anchored in the stony ground. The section of each target that resembled a rider had a tunic and a breastplate and a battered helmet. “In a few moments, you will see. We should walk a bit closer.”

Suhartyn nodded, then inclined his head northward. “I see that you are building a larger hold uphill from the black tower.”

“After a time, any successful community finds it must grow,” replied Ryba, moving toward the targets. “Growth on the Roof of the World requires solid stone and careful planning.”

“I can see that you have, what, several full companies of your guards?”

“We do, and we will have even more before long. Guards are not our only defense, as you may recall. Our abilities do not lie in just the numbers and skills of the guards, as Lord Sillek and his sire discovered.”

“Ah, yes. How could anyone forget that? Still…that was some time ago.”

“You should watch the demonstration, Envoy Suhartyn. It might answer some of your questions. If not, afterwards, I will be more than pleased to do so.” Ryba's voice was calm and cool, like a polished short sword.

Saryn had stepped back, matching steps with the four men behind Suhartyn, the closer two of whom wore officers' cold-weather jackets of a dark green wool.

One inclined his head. “You're the arms-commander?”

“I am. Saryn. And you?”

“Lygyrt, Captain of Horse. This is Undercaptain Whulyn.”

Lygyrt was young, barely twenty local years, while the grizzled Whulyn looked to be a good ten years older than Saryn…and probably wasn't. Saryn marked him as the equivalent of a noncom who'd come up through the ranks, even more rare in Candar than in the UFA.

“Then you both should find the demonstrations of interest.”

“I'm certain we will,” Lygyrt replied.

Whulyn nodded brusquely.

Ryba stopped in the middle of the field. Almost as she did, the twenty riders of Hryessa's first squad, two abreast, started down the stone road at a quick trot. Lygyrt and Whulyn immediately began to watch the guards. The other two Suthyans, more richly dressed in golden brown leather coats with black brocade-trimmed sleeve cuffs, did not survey the riders but kept their eyes on Ryba and Suhartyn.

Saryn glanced to Catya, the nearest guard, then inclined her head toward the two civilians, both with short-trimmed beards, doubtless the equivalent of Suthyan gentry—or dressed to convey that impression. Catya nodded and dropped back slightly, easing gradually westward so that she took position behind the two. Another guard—Trecya—joined her.

Whulyn's eyes flickered toward the two guards as they shifted position, then back to Saryn, before returning to scrutinize the mounted squad as the riders turned onto the packed gravel on the west end of the arms field.

Just before the southwest end of the field, the column turned, and the riders urged their mounts into a canter, then a gallop, with the guards on the north side holding their mounts back just enough that each file was staggered, but with each rider maintaining the same interval between mounts.

Each target received two flung blades, released from ten yards away. Every one struck the torso area of the designated target.

“Rather impressive,” offered Suhartyn, “if not terribly practical in large battles.”

“They're not finished,” said Ryba.

At the end of the field, the squad turned right and headed back westward along the south end. They continued due west up the long slope that served as the archery range.

“Bows?” asked Whulyn, looking at Saryn.

She nodded. “At two hundred yards.”

Near the top of the slope, short of the cliffs that formed a natural backdrop, the squad turned and reformed. Barely had they done so than their bows were out. Each guard loosed three shafts.

In instants, every single target had sprouted shafts.

“You will notice that every shaft penetrated a vital area,” Ryba said conversationally.

“Picked squads can do that,” noted Suhartyn.

“Have you ever seen one that could do what that squad did?” Ryba looked hard at the Suthyan.

“I'm certain it is possible,” Suhartyn said pleasantly.

“Indeed it is. We just proved that. But have you seen any other squad do that?” She paused. “Still, we have another demonstration.”

Two guards ran across the field carrying a leather-covered sphere slightly less than a yard across. They set it on the ground twenty yards in front of the Marshal, then ran back to their positions with a squad to the east of the Marshal.

“Do you see the ten archers on the road above the smithy?”

Suhartyn turned. “Yes.”

“They are a different group, and the distance is about three hundred yards.” Ryba raised her arm, then dropped it.

In instants, the wicker globe became a hedgehog of feathered shafts.

“One hundred shafts in a target a yard across at three hundred yards in little more than a score of heartbeats.”

Saryn could sense the concern and the tension in the two Suthyan officers, but none from Suhartyn. Didn't the envoy have any idea just how accurate the archers were?

“That is most impressive marksmanship,” acknowledged Suhartyn.

“In the field, of course, they would all target different armsmen, all across the front lines, so that any charge would slow, if not halt. Then they would pick off those trapped behind.”

Whulyn nodded, if almost imperceptibly. Lygyrt glanced at his undercaptain, but Whulyn did not look at his superior.