L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“You mean you can’t. She couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Let her take the credit.”

“Or the blame?”

“Either way.”

Abruptly, Istril gestured. “The road patrol is bringing someone in under a parley flag.”

“Gallosians, you think? Who else would need a parley flag?”

“We’ll see.”

Almost a quarter glass passed before the riders reined up on the causeway outside Tower Black. There were but four men, three armsmen and an older man in a more formal uniform.

Klarissa was the squad leader at the head of the detachment, and she inclined her head. “This is Arms-Commander Saryn, second only to the Marshal in Westwind.”

Saryn straightened.

The officer, whose brown beard bore traces of white, bowed his head to Saryn. “Commander, I have a message from the Lord-Prefect of Gallos for the Marshal of Westwind.”

“I’d be happy to present it to her,” said Saryn.

“I have been ordered to wait for her response, Commander.”

Saryn looked squarely up at the officer and smiled politely. “I will tell her that, as well.”

His eyes widened as he met her gaze, and he quickly extended a sealed parchment envelope, lowering his eyes ever so slightly when she took it.

Saryn crossed the yard or so to the tower entry and stepped inside. She took her time climbing the stone steps to the uppermost level of the tower, thankful she didn’t have to ride into the heights of the ice fields to find Ryba.

The Marshal was seated at her table, with the door open to her study, writing in some sort of ledger, which she closed as she saw Saryn. “Yes?”

“You have a message from the Prefect of Gallos.” Saryn stepped forward and handed the envelope to the Marshal.

Ryba took it. “From the Gallosians? I saw the parley flag.”

“The officer wore a Gallosian uniform. He said he’d been commanded to deliver the message and wait for your response. He was nervous and telling the truth.”

“We could make him wait, but that wouldn’t inconvenience Karthanos at all and would just alienate the poor officer, who was probably sent because he’d upset his mightiness or whoever is running Gallos for the Prefect.” Ryba slipped out her belt knife and slit the envelope, then extracted the single sheet of parchment within.

She read it and handed it to Saryn without comment. Saryn scanned the short document.

Marshal:

Continued conflict between our lands is less than practical or advisable.

Therefore, in the spirit of conciliation and friendship, the land of Gallos accepts your offer and reaffirms its commitment to respecting the previously established boundaries between Gallos and Westwind. Gallos will continue to respect the rights of travelers and traders to cross freely those boundaries, subject to what ever tariffs each jurisdiction may impose.

Under the bottom line was simply the seal of Karthanos, Prefect of Gallos.

Saryn looked to Ryba. “That’s as much of a concession as you’re going to get, unless you invade Gallos and sack Fenard.”

“That will do.” Ryba shook her head. “It has to.”

“It isn’t signed, only sealed. Do you think that’s because Karthanos is too sick to reply, but someone fears we’ll do worse if they don’t reply?”

“Does it matter? The seal offers the commitment. Besides, what would we do if they try again? Drag out this communiqué?”

“You’ll reply in similar terms?”

“Slightly more graciously, and with polite words suggesting that it would be a shame if similar devastation had to be wreaked on either land in the future.”

Saryn nodded, although she shared Ryba’s judgment that Gallosian forbearance would lapse with time…or with a new ruler.

“How are you feeling?” asked Ryba.

“Fine. What about you?” Saryn couldn’t help but glance down, although she couldn’t see the leg brace that had replaced the splint on Ryba’s leg.

“It’s still uncomfortable, but it wasn’t a break, more like a hairline fracture. I worry more about you. You were looking fairly washed-out after the battle…for more than an eightday.”

Saryn started to say that what she had done had taken a great deal of effort. Instead, she just nodded. “I think everyone was tired afterward.” Those who weren’t dead.

“What do you intend to do about your pledge to the Lady Zeldyan?”

“Nothing now,” Saryn replied. “I said I would offer my personal help, if requested, after we dealt with Gallos. That doesn’t require me to volunteer to run down to Lornth immediately.”

“You were rather generous with your offer, as I may have noted before, Saryn. What if you are needed here?”

“I thought it necessary, Ryba. If we did not obtain the saltpeter and sulfur, I felt we could not defeat the Gallosians. If we could not, I would not be…available to help the Lady Zeldyan. I had nothing else to offer.”

“What else did you offer?”

Saryn shrugged. “Only as many guards as you would spare and who would choose to go.” Again, that wasn’t precisely what she had said, but it was close enough. “The only absolute was my personal assistance.” That was perfectly true.

“If she requests you, that will weaken us more, even if you take only two squads.”

“That’s possible, but anything that leaves the regents in control of Lornth will strengthen Westwind.”

Ryba nodded. “She will ask…sooner or later. Let us hope it is later.”

From what she had seen in Lornth, Saryn feared it would be sooner.

The Marshal nodded. “Go offer the Gallosians modest refreshments and water for their horses, and tell them that I will have a reply shortly. You may return for it after they are fed.”

“Yes, ser.” Saryn turned and headed down the stairs.

Had Ryba already seen that Saryn would have to go to Lornth with two squads? How much else had she seen? Saryn certainly wasn’t about to ask.

More than two eightdays passed, and Saryn regained control of her vision and all of her abilities to sense order and chaos flows. The road patrols reported travelers returning to the Westhorns; a trader in leathers even came to Westwind. Dealdron returned from the lower canyon with kegs filled with lime, and Aemra told Istril that Dealdron had showed her everything necessary to create the lime and the mortar. The last of the horn bows were set in their frames for their long curing. More Analerian women appeared, asking for refuge, and some even brought goods and tools and small wagons, and a horse or two. The walls of the new barracks continued to rise, and the foundations of the larger keep planned by Ryba took shape.

And Saryn kept worrying, wondering when she would hear from Lady Zeldyan.

On the fourth threeday of summer, in late afternoon, as Saryn made her way back down from the smithy to Tower Black and the armory, where she anticipated more work in sharpening newly forged short swords, she saw three guards riding down the road from the ridge to the north of Westwind, accompanying two unfamiliar riders. Although neither rider bore a banner, the purple-and-green uniforms announced their purpose clearly enough.

Saryn reached the causeway well before the riders did and stood there waiting as they neared, then reined up.

“Commander,” offered Haesta, “the Lornians have a message for you.”

The younger courier eased his mount forward and extended his gloved hand…and an envelope on which was written in ornate script: Saryn, Arms-Commander of Westwind.

Saryn looked at the envelope again, then up at the courier. “Thank you.” She turned to the guards. “See that they are fed and their mounts taken care of.”

“We’ll take care of your mounts. Then you can eat,” said Haesta. “This way…”