Arms-Commander (9 page)

After breakfast and the morning muster on the causeway outside Tower Black, where duties were handed out for the day, Saryn headed back into the tower to meet with Istril but found Istril coming up the steps from the lower level.

The healer smiled. “Suansa's doing well, and the other three are fine.”

“Is the girl all right?”

“Adiara's healthy. She needs to eat more, and she's scared of her own shadow. The trio have taken her under their collective wings for now.”

“That's good.”
Good for her, and for Westwind.
“How is the Gallosian's leg?”

“It wasn't badly mangled, not for that kind of injury. The bone end didn't break through. The splint repositioned it, and he'll heal. A couple of the whip wounds had chaos in them. Not bad, and I took care of that.” Istril paused. “You scared him worse than the broken leg.”

“Me? All I did was tell Murkassa not to kill him.”

“Oh? He saw you kill three men, then ride down another and bring him back dead. I did tell him that was what you did—and that you were the one who taught all the others to fight. He seemed to need that.”

“Why?” Saryn snorted. “So his fragile male ego wasn't shattered by seeing his comrades slaughtered? Besides, Ryba designed the training, and you have as much to do with it as I do.”

“Maybe at first. Not now. You know I'm limited to teaching blade skills for defense.”

“Those are the most important,” Saryn pointed out.

“You're kind to say that.”

“Did the Gallosian say anything about Karthanos or his son? Or anything else?”

“No, ser. He did ask why we bothered to save him. I told him that was because he hadn't taken part directly in the massacres. He asked how I knew. I just told him the truth—that you knew when someone lied.”

“So do you.”

“He was more interested in what you thought.”

Saryn shook her head. “I need to talk to him more before Ryba does.”

“You got her to agree not to kill him?”

“So long as he behaves himself. If he doesn't, it's my responsibility.”

“Will you tell him that?”

“Only that his life depends on his good behavior.” Saryn nodded and headed down the stone steps.

She found Dealdron propped up on a narrow bed in the lower level of the tower—in what Saryn called sickbay, a term meaningless for all the local-born guards—who comprised most of those at Westwind. While his face was pale, and she could sense the chaos around the broken bones, she could also recognize that he was what she might have called passably handsome. That might cause problems, especially after her promise to Ryba.

“How are you feeling?” Saryn shifted from Temple into Old Rationalist.

“Better than if I were not feeling.” Dealdron's words bore a different cadence than did those of the Lornians or those who lived west of the Roof of the World. The Gallosians and the Lornians didn't speak different languages so much as differing dialects, suggesting that their common origin wasn't that far back, not as languages went. “What will you do with me?”

“That depends on you. If you're well-mannered and prove yourself useful, you might have a long, healthy life here. If you don't, then you won't have much time to worry about it.”

The young man nodded slowly. “The healer said that you are the arms-commander for all of Westwind. You rode out on patrol with but twenty…blades.”

“Even the Marshal rides with patrols.”
Not that often in recent years, but she still does.
“Shouldn't someone who commands others be willing to do all that she orders them to do?”

“Rulers…most rulers…do not ride…not in the fore…”

“We aren't most people.” Saryn decided to change the subject. “You know horses. What else do you know?”

“Some things.”

“What things?”

“My father was a plasterer. I can do that.”

“Can you make the plaster?”

“Of course.” Dealdron's tone suggested that making plaster was elementary. “If you have a kiln.”

“We fire pottery.”

“That is too hot.”

That meant that they could build a plaster kiln. “Could you make plaster here on the Roof of the World?”

“Is there limestone here?”

“We haven't looked,” Saryn admitted.

“There is limestone in many places.”

“Could you find it?”

Dealdron glanced down at his splinted leg.

“It will heal, and you will walk as you did,” Saryn replied to his unspoken question.

“Then if limestone is here, I will find it.”

“What else can you do?”

“A man can only do so much.”

“Whereas women can do many things,” replied Saryn ironically, “and do them well without having to talk about it.”

Dealdron merely looked bewildered, as if Saryn had replied in Temple or another language foreign to him.

“Who was your undercaptain?”

“Flassyn. He came from Subas.”

“What did he say the squad was supposed to do?”

Dealdron's eyes moved ever so slightly so that he was not quite looking at Saryn, but not obviously avoiding her, before he spoke. “He said nothing until we had ridden out two days from Fenard. Then he said that they had to kill as many travelers as they could to prove the angels could not keep the Westhorns safe.”

“Did he give orders to violate the women?”

Dealdron moistened his lips. Finally, he looked straight at Saryn. “No, ser. It was not like that. He said…he didn't much care what happened to them so long as they ended up dead.”

“What did you think about that?”

“I did not like it.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Dealdron looked directly at Saryn. “The eightday before we left Fenard, I said that they were riding the horses too hard. I got whipped for speaking out. Some armsmen agreed, but the undercaptain said I wasn't ever to question him. So he whipped me…and put salt on my back.”

Saryn sensed the truth in the words. “You won't get whipped here.”

“You will just kill me if I do not obey. Is that not so?”

“Not quite. If…if you have a good reason, then we'll listen. If you're being willful or stubborn…that's another question.”

“Another inquiry?” The puzzled look appeared once more on Dealdron's face.

Saryn almost smiled. Some idioms didn't translate into Old Rat. “Another matter. How many armsmen is Lord Arthanos mustering to bring against us?”

“I cannot say, ser. He has raised ten new companies since the fall…”

Ten
new
companies? A thousand more armsmen?

When Saryn finally finished interrogating Dealdron, she left and crossed the lower level to the base of the stone steps, where she paused, dissatisfied in a vague way that she could not identify. Finally, she made her way up to the main level.

Hryessa was waiting for her in the entry foyer of Tower Black. “Commander? The day before yesterday, while you and second squad were gone, Murgos…he's the sometime trader from Rohrn…he brought these missives for the Marshal.” Hryessa handed the three to Saryn.

Saryn recognized the script on two. One was addressed to “Ryba, Marshal of Westwind,” and the second was addressed to “Dyliess, in care of the Marshal of Westwind.” The third bore only the words “The Marshal.”

“They arrived two days ago?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You didn't want to take them up to her?” Saryn smiled wryly.

“No, ser. I know better when those two arrive. I knew you would be back before long.”

Knowing the chill that Ryba could project—and her anger—Saryn could understand the guard captain's reluctance either to deliver the missives or merely to leave them for Ryba. “Wait here for me.”

With the three heavy sealed missives in her hand, Saryn walked up the stone steps past the now-empty spaces on the upper levels and the area that had once been an arms practice area during the winter until too many bodies had filled the tower. As she neared the top level, she called, “Marshal…I have some missives for you.”

“The door is open.” Ryba's words were cool.

Saryn climbed the last three steps, aware that she was breathing a little heavily. She wasn't in the condition she should have been, or would be later in the spring. Then she stepped through the open doorway and set all three sealed missives on the table, directly before Ryba, who sat with her back to the window.

“These didn't come today.”

“They came while I was gone. They were waiting for me to give to you.”

“They all fear to hand me anything from him.”

“Do you blame them?”

“No.” Ryba's green eyes fixed on Saryn. “If you would wait below until I read these.”

“Yes, ser.”

“While you're waiting, I'd also like you to consider another problem. Too much of the guards' business is being handled in the local tongue. We need to keep Temple the language of the guards. I've asked Istril to think on this as well. The young ones must speak Temple first.” Ryba held up a hand. “Don't say a word. You've insisted that the guard captains give commands in Temple, and the guards all know those. That's not enough. We need to work in schooling for the children and the new guards. Schooling in Temple.”

Saryn inclined her head, turned, and made her way out back down to the main level.

“That was quick,” said Hryessa.

Her words were in the degraded form of Old Rationalist that the locals used, Saryn noted. “She asked me to wait until she read the messages.”

“So fortunate you should be.”

“She also wants us to use Temple for everything and teach it to the young ones.”

Hryessa frowned. “Only you angels know it well.”

“You speak it, and it might give us an advantage in battle and in trading, especially in years to come when all the young ones know it.”

The guard captain shrugged. “As the Marshal wills.”

Always as Ryba wills. Nylan understood that early
. Yet what could those like Llyselle, Istril, and Siret do? They were full-blooded Sybrans, and trying to live in the hot lowlands would have been a slow death sentence. And the women who had fled to Westwind would suffer the same fate as those slaughtered by the false brigands. Even as a half-Sybran, Saryn had found the lowlands oppressive the few times she'd visited Lornth.

After a moment, Saryn smiled at Hryessa. “You might as well get on with your duties.”

“Yes, ser.” Hryessa offered a smile that contained both understanding and sympathy.

“Commander!” Ryba's voice carried down the five levels of the stone stairs with ease.

Saryn retraced her steps back up the tower. No sooner had she stepped into the small study than Ryba gestured for her to take the seat across the circular table from her. Saryn did, but did not speak, waiting to hear what Ryba had to say.

“You know that Nylan has sent Dyliess a letter every year on her birthday?” Ryba's words were not quite a question.

“I had wondered when the first messages always came in the spring, and there was always one from the west, sometimes through Lornth, for you.”

“They have to come from there. Nylan and Ayrlyn are living like hermits in some forest to the southwest, but there's always a letter for Dyliess…and another one for me. One with information he thinks I'll find useful.”

Saryn did not comment.

“It usually is,” Ryba continued. “The engineer has always known what is useful.”

“Has Dyliess read the letters?” Saryn asked.

“Yes. I've read them to her since before she could read. I make copies for her now. I've kept the originals in a book for her.” Ryba frowned. “The engineer is generally kind and thoughtful in his writing. He also is careful not to write anything he thinks will offend me.”

“Dyliess doesn't speak of him.”

“I've told her not to, except to me, or to you, if she chooses. It's better if everyone thinks of him as both mighty and departed for good, and not as a father who is human enough to write letters.” Ryba laughed, softly and bitterly. “If only once a year, long as those missives may be.”

“She must know that he hasn't forgotten her.”

“That's true.” Ryba glanced over her shoulder toward the window, still closed, but with the gray hangings pulled back to allow the morning sunlight to pour into the small chamber, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air.

“Is there anything I should know, then?” asked Saryn. Ryba would not have mentioned the letters without a reason.

“He wrote that our troubles to the west are not over, and that, without aid, Lady Zeldyan may have difficulty holding Lornth.”

“She does provide a buffer,” Saryn temporized. “Do her difficulties lie with Lord Ildyrom's son? The Jeranyi have always been a problem.”

“That's but one aspect of it. The Suthyans have reclaimed Rulyarth as well, and have imposed close-to-punitive tariffs on goods bound to Lornth.”

“She's being squeezed on both sides then. Do we have to do anything?”

“Both young Deryll and the Suthyans would be far less to our liking as neighbors than is Lady Zeldyan. Still…we will have to see, after we deal with Arthanos and the Gallosians.”

Saryn had the chilling sense that Ryba had already seen. “The Gallosians…and not the Suthyans?”

“The Suthyans fight with golds…or use them, or the promise of golds, to get others to fight. We will have to face the Gallosians first. After we deal with Arthanos, you'll be the one who goes to Lornth,” Ryba went on. “What ever happens, I won't send you to your death. That much, I do know.”

Ryba was quite capable of lying—except that Saryn would have detected it, and Ryba knew that. Still, from what Saryn had seen in the under-space battles with the demon towers, what she'd felt on the neuronet, and what she'd experienced and observed in the ten years since the angels had come to the Roof of the World, some forms of living might well be worse than death, not that she wished to experience either.
But why would she mention that she would not send me to my death?