L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

Ryba set her goblet down, and asked, “Why did you bring that armsman back? You should have killed him with the others.”

“I thought it was the thing to do.”

“You go on feelings more than you admit, don’t you?”

“Sometimes that’s all you have to go on,” replied Saryn.

Since none of second squad had talked directly to Ryba, the Marshal had either overheard the others when they ate, or she’d seen Dealdron in one of her glimpses of what would be. There was little point in asking how Ryba had learned. “Let me tell you what happened.”

“Go ahead.” Ryba fingered her goblet but did not lift it.

“We ran across a family-two families-that had been slaughtered by brigands-except for one daughter who had escaped into the woods….” Saryn proceeded with a factual detailing of all that had happened, ending with, “…and we brought back the girl, and we did end up with fourteen additional mounts, as well as supplies, weapons, and coins.”

“What were your casualties?” Ryba took the smallest sip of her brandy.

“We lost Gerlya to a wild cast of a battle-ax. Suansa’s arm was shattered, but Istril thinks it can be healed. It will take a good year before she can use it well, though. Three other guards took minor slashes.”

“One in twenty, Commander. You know that’s not good. Even for twenty-one of theirs. The working standard is one to fifty. It is early in the year, but…”

Saryn had heard those words often enough, and she understood the mathematics as well as Ryba. They were literally the margin for survival. The bows helped, in small engagements, because of their range and power, so long as the guards could use the trees and the terrain, but that would change if Arthanos sent an army, because it would include companies of archers who would just turn the sky black with shafts. Archery accuracy mattered more in small engagements, but mattered far less against an enemy who could launch enough shafts that arrows fell like rain.

“What about the one Gallosian you brought back? You still haven’t addressed why he was worth saving…except saying your feelings told you to. With you, I’m sure it wasn’t because of his looks. Or did you even have another reason?”

Inside, Saryn couldn’t help bridling at Ryba’s words, but she replied evenly, “First, I wanted to see if we could find out more from him, especially if you questioned him personally. Second, he didn’t take part in the actual killings or the assaults on the women. He didn’t have anything to do with any of it, except holding the horses. His back is scarred from whipping.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll end up just like all the others on this world. We don’t need men like that.”

“What sort do we need?” asked Saryn quietly.

“That’s my decision, not yours.”

“I can’t carry out your decisions, Ryba, if I don’t know what standards you have in mind. You’ve as much as admitted that we do need more men here. With that leg of his, he can’t do much harm right now. Istril and Siret and you should be able to tell whether he meets your standards before he’s well enough to cause trouble-assuming he’s that type. I don’t think he is, but I’ll leave that judgment up to others.”

“You’re so accommodating, Saryn.”

And where men are concerned, you’re impossible. “I do my best for you and for Westwind. You should know that by now.”

“I know that you do what you think is best. That is not necessarily what is best.”

“Not having at least a number of men who are acceptable here at Westwind is not good. We all know that. So do you.”

“That is not so critical now. Arthanos is.”

“You’re right,” Saryn said carefully. “The problem is that, if we wait until the problem of men is critical, it will be too late to do anything about it.” She did not take another sip of the brandy.

“Then…Dealdron is your responsibility.”

“You still should question him,” Saryn replied. “You’ll doubtless discover more than I did, and he needs to know just how intimidating you can be.”

“I think I can manage that,” Ryba said, her tone so dry it was cutting.

Saryn inclined her head politely, then lifted the brandy goblet and sipped. “This is good.”

“It is. Did you know that, while you were gone, Dyliess managed to hit the center of the swinging targets from seventy yards?”

“She takes after you…”

“She has some of my better traits, and some of his, but she’s far more practical than her father…”

Saryn smiled, but did not relax, as Ryba continued.

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?”