L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“We need more men,” Istril said, her voice low.

Saryn’s eyes darted upward, in the direction of the topmost levels of Tower Black.

“I know how Ryba feels,” the silver-haired healer continued. “Because many of the locals arrived pregnant or with children, it doesn’t look like that big a problem yet. But it will be.”

“There have been a few children born here from others,” Saryn offered. “Certainly, your three silver-tops-”

“Only one of them is mine, and half the time I’m not sure about that,” Istril said dryly. “They belong to each other more than to their mothers. Still…the three and Hryessa’s daughters are the only ones conceived and born here.”

Saryn could sense the hint of pain behind Istril’s words. Unlike any of the others, Istril had given up her son, Weryl, to his father when Nylan had left Westwind. Both Saryn and Istril knew that had been for the best. Neither spoke of it often, and then only fleetingly.

“We can’t keep counting on refugees,” Istril went on. “Each year they have to go through more to reach Westwind. It’s harder for those coming from the east. We have to find a way to get men who will fit with Ryba’s visions and views.”

“You want to turn men into what women are in the rest of this world? The men of this world would rather die, those worth having, anyway.” Saryn’s thoughts went back. Thousands of men had died trying to destroy Westwind. For what? To try to deny a few hundred women the right to live the way they chose?

“No,” replied Istril. “Why couldn’t we establish a better model? We could use crafters. What if we told the women who have come here to let their relatives know we welcome crafters, and that they would never have to bear arms or pay taxes-they call them tariffs here-but the price for that life was to pledge absolute obedience to the Marshal?”

Saryn shook her head. “Even if some would come, she’s not ready for that.”

“After ten years? How can there be a future for Dyliess if there are no men? Ask her that. How will her heritage go on? How will ours…” Istril’s voice died away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Nylan wasn’t my type, and Mertin never lived long enough…” Saryn took a sip of the cool tea, more to give herself time to think. “It might be…it just might…”

“What?”

“If we plant the idea that it will happen, if only after her death…and then ask if she would rather establish something that she can control, with rules and traditions…”

“You’re the only one she talks to about such.”

“And very seldom,” Saryn replied dryly. “I’ll have to be careful about when I bring it up and exactly how I approach it. She gets less approachable every year.”

Istril’s smile was faint and sad.

“How are those concentrate pills from the willow bark working?” asked Saryn quickly.

“I don’t know that they’re any more effective than the liquid, but they’re a lot easier to give, especially for the younger children. I can slip them inside a morsel of cheese or softened bread, and they don’t taste the bitterness. They only hold down the fever. It doesn’t help with the infection chaos, except that the body is more able to fight when the fever’s not really high.”

“I wish we had more…”

“Soap and water are the biggest help. That’s one place where the military discipline helps. They just have to wash up frequently.”

“I’ve told Llyselle and Hryessa that those who are lax should be assigned to cleaning the stone drainage channels and the millraces, and especially the sheep pens and the stables. It seems to help.” Saryn laughed softly.

“Do you know what Ryba has in mind for dealing with the Gallosians?”

“Not yet.” Although Ryba had said little, what ever strategy the Marshal adopted would be efficient and deadly.

“Maybe we could capture a few of the younger men, ones who are little more than boys.”

“They’d probably have to be wounded or disabled.”

Istril nodded. “With no future back in Gallos.”

“We thought that might hold Narliat and Relyn,” Saryn said. “Ryba will remember. She doesn’t ever forget.” Or forgive.

“It’s worked with Daryn, and Relyn hasn’t caused us any harm. His words might even have brought us some of the guards we now have.”

Neither mentioned that Narliat had died for his treachery.

Saryn yawned, then set her mug on the table. “It’s been a long day.” They all were, but spring and summer seemed short, even with the long days, because so much was necessary to prepare for the long winters.

Istril slipped from the bench and stood. “Good night.” She turned and headed for the stone staircase.

“Good night, Istril.” Saryn stood, then walked the length of the hall and into the kitchen, where she set the mug on the wash rack. She would have washed it, but she’d have wasted more water doing it than leaving it to be washed with the morning dishes. Then she walked slowly back through the empty dining hall-crowded to overflowing when in use, even with four shifts for meals-and up the stone steps toward the fourth-level cubby she rated as arms-commander.

Somewhere, she heard a child’s murmur, and the quiet “hush” of the mother.

There should be more, she reflected, realizing again that Istril was right. But…talking to Ryba about men or children was always chancy. It has to be done, and you’re the only one who can.

That thought brought little comfort as she settled onto her narrow pallet.

As they passed Tower Black and headed along the stone road leading up the slope to the northeast, Saryn and Siret rode near the front of the column, with but three guards before them, a full squad behind them, and three carts following them. Two of the carts were empty. The third held goods captured from the occasional brigands who had disregarded the borders of Westwind.

“What do you want most from the traders?” asked Siret, her eyes on the ridgeline above, where two mounted guards waited, surveying both the north and south slopes.

“The usual-flour, dried meat, and some of the herbs, like that brinn. Any cloth that’s not too expensive, and what ever sulfur we can lay our hands on.”

“No tools?”

“No. Huldran and Ydrall forge better tools than anything that Kiadryn will have. The problem we’re going to have before long is iron stock. We’re close to running through all those iron crowbar blades that we’ve accumulated over the years. So we’ll need iron-unless we can find our own mine. That doesn’t look likely from what little I know about geology.”

As the two neared the top of the ridge, Saryn checked the twin blades at her belt and the extra one in the saddle sheath. She didn’t carry one of the rare composite bows. She wasn’t that good an archer, and she was far better using an extra blade or two as a throwing weapon.

One of the two guards stationed on the ridge rode forward when Saryn reached the crest of the road. “Commander,” offered Dyasta, “we haven’t seen any outliers, and third squad swept through the trees below us, all the way out to the flat.”

“Thank you. Carry on.”

Once Saryn was halfway down the northern side of the ridge, she concentrated her senses on the stand of evergreens below the road leading down to the ceramic works and the mill. She’d never had the degree of order-sensing that she’d seen in Nylan or Ayrlyn, but she got a feeling of reddish white unease whenever there were many people with weapons in an area, and she could sense “flows” when there were people around. Her senses were dependable only for about a kay and a half. Unlike Nylan and Istril, her senses didn’t flatten her if she killed someone.