L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

After making certain that guard details were posted for the wagons and that horses and guards were settled in, as well as after grooming her own gelding, Saryn finally made her way across the rear courtyard and back into the inn where Essin was waiting.

“Be another half glass or so before supper’s ready,” he announced.

“That’s fine,” Saryn replied. “Where is your mother?”

Essin gestured toward the narrow staircase, then started up. Every step creaked under his boots, and the wooden panels on each side of the staircase vibrated as well. Saryn followed several steps behind. By the time she reached the top, Essin was standing by the open door at the end of the hallway to Saryn’s right. She walked toward him, grateful that the floorboards didn’t shake under her boots as they had under his, and followed him into the chamber, some three yards by four.

The white-haired woman was propped up with pillows in a narrow bed. Her face was drawn, and the circles under her eyes were black. Her eyes remained as intent as Saryn recalled, but her voice was hoarse. “Told Essin you’d be back afore long.” She smothered a cough.

“Word is that the Lord of Duevek had some difficulty when you passed through his lands.” Essin looked to Saryn expectantly.

“He blocked the road and said we had no business going to the regents. His undercaptain sent half a company of cavalry against us. They ended up wounded or dead, mostly dead.”

Jennyleu laughed, a dry, cackling sound. “Coulda told the lord that. Wouldn’t have done any good. None of the men who rule understand.” A racking cough punctuated her words.

Saryn studied the old woman with her senses, picking up hints of the reddish white chaos she knew was some kind of illness.

“Essin said you got wagons…”

“Trading goods from the regents,” Saryn admitted.

“You going to help them if it comes to that?”

“Lady Zeldyan seems to be the only one who doesn’t want Westwind destroyed.” That wasn’t quite true, Saryn realized, even as she spoke. Zeldyan might not mind the destruction of Westwind; she just didn’t want Lornth to pay any more for Westwind’s annihilation. “Or to go to the trouble of doing it, anyway.”

“…don’t like not telling the truth, do you, Angel…?” Another series of coughs racked Jennyleu, so much so that her pale face turned red, then almost gray.

Saryn found herself stepping forward and grasping the old woman’s forearms. While she was no healer, she had to try to do something. Using the darkness, much as she might have with her blades, she cut away the reddish white that she knew was wound chaos, or infection, but only that, and nothing that felt “physical.” After that, she smoothed and ordered with the blackness.

A wave of dizziness passed over her, but she straightened, released the older woman’s arms, and stepped back, putting her hand on the footboard of the bed to steady herself.

Essin looked at her strangely but did not speak.

“What did you do?” asked the old woman, after a long silence.

“Something…I can’t describe, but…I think it will help you get better.” Saryn studied Jennyleu with her senses again. Most of the chaos had vanished, and she had the feeling that the rest was fading.

“That’s better.” Jennyleu smiled. “I’ll be able to rest now.”

“You shouldn’t talk anymore,” Saryn said. “Not for a while.”

“I feel better already.”

“Ma…you heard the angel. It’s time to rest.”

“All right…suppose you’ve listened to me more ’n a few times about things like that.” Jennyleu paused, then said, “Feed her good, you hear.”

“Yes, Ma.” Essin stepped back to the door, then out into the hallway.

After a last look and a smile at Jennyleu, Saryn followed the innkeeper.

Once they were down in the front foyer of the inn, Essin turned and looked hard at Saryn. “You said you weren’t a healer.”

“I’m not. I just know a few things. I helped her a little. She’s a strong lady.”

“You helped her more than a little.”

“I hope so, but I can’t promise anything.”

“She said she wanted to see you when you come again.”

“I don’t know if that will be soon,” Saryn pointed out. “The last time was years ago.”

“You didn’t stop here then.”

“I didn’t know enough to stop in Henspa.” Saryn grinned in the dimness of the foyer, lit by but one oil lamp in a wall sconce. She still felt slightly light-headed.

“You will next time.” Essin gestured to the dimly lit public room. “You need to eat.”

She wasn’t about to argue, not as tired as she suddenly felt. Was that because of what she’d done for Jennyleu? Ayrlyn, Istril, and Siret had always said that healing left them exhausted, but Saryn had never thought of herself as a healer. “Lead on, innkeeper.”

Late on fiveday, a full eightday after they had reached Henspa, she and the guards-and the wagons-finally pulled up outside the stables at Westwind. Along the way, they’d had to replace one wheel, brace an axle and hope it held, and use the spare mounts to help the drays up the steeper grades. They’d also seen no other travelers, traders or otherwise.

Saryn groomed the gelding, then slung her gear over her shoulder and walked through the darkness down the road past the smithy, whose forge had been banked glasses earlier, and into Tower Black. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her and took just two steps when young Dyliess sprang up from where she had been sitting on the bottom step of the stone staircase.

“Commander…”

“I assume the Marshal wants to see me, Dyliess?”

“Yes, ser. At your earliest convenience.”

“Tell her that I’ll be there as soon as I drop my gear.”

“Yes, ser.” The silver-haired girl inclined her head, then turned and hurried up the steps.

Saryn followed, stopping momentarily to leave her gear in her own small cubby before resuming the climb to the top level of Tower Black. There, Ryba was waiting, seated at the small table, on which were set an amber bottle and two goblets. The single wall lamp offered more than enough light, given Saryn’s nightsight.

“Brandy again?” asked Saryn.

“You look like you could use it.”

Saryn took the empty chair and watched as Ryba half filled the small goblets, not really brandy snifters. Then she took a small sip, letting the liquid warm her mouth before swallowing.

“What took you so long?” Ryba finally asked.

“Success,” replied Saryn dryly. “We’ve got the sulfur and saltpeter. The Lady Zeldyan agreed to help immediately, but it took a bit to persuade the other regents-and several days to gather everything…” She gave a brief summary of the journey, ending with, “…I hadn’t realized how much the wagons would slow us down coming back up to the Roof of the World.”

“How much were you able to obtain?”

“Three small wagonsful,” Saryn replied. “And the loan of the wagons and the dray horses. We lost a wheel, and one of the wagons will need to be rebuilt before it goes anywhere.”

“Do you think we need to return them?”

“No one will complain, but it still would be a good idea.”

Ryba looked hard at Saryn. “Exactly what did you have to promise for all that?”

“My personal help to the lady, but only after we deal with the Gallosians.”

“Your personal help?”

“I could not commit Westwind.”

“Saryn…I would not…”

“What else did I have to offer? I’m no trader. I’m a former space pilot with skills in weapons and some ability to lead people. After this last trek, I’d never want to be a trader.”