L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

Haelora gestured to the public room. “Best we take one of the front tables. Folks know not to bother me there if I’m talking to someone. That’s where I haggle with everyone.”

“And she haggles well,” added Vanadyl. “Otherwise, we’d not be in business.” He turned back toward the narrow desk against the wall, where a ledger lay open.

“But he keeps the accounts,” replied Haelora, leading the way into the public room and toward a table in the corner farthest from the archway, where she settled into a chair from which she could watch both the archway to the main foyer and the smaller archway to the kitchen.

“Do you have any children?” asked Saryn.

“Just Maryla. She’s but eleven and one of the best cooks in Lornth. Runs the kitchen right well, she does. You wanted to know what worries folks? They worry that their wallets are too thin, and they don’t see ’em getting any fatter. They don’t see the regents doing much to help them. Leastwise, the Lady Zeldyan doesn’t spray coins like Lord Nessil’s consort did-a new dress every eightday. He wasn’t much better, with all his gold-and-purple tunics.”

“What do people think about Lady Zeldyan?”

“I don’t know as they think much, excepting she’s trying to do her best. Most folk just want to have enough for small comforts and be left alone.”

“What about Lord Kelthyn?”

“Oh…Lord Snotnose…he near-on rode down old Bethamie last winter, then yelled at her for not getting out of his way, then talks real cultured to the fellow he’s riding with. Can’t say as many folks even pay much attention to him. I wouldn’t know that much, save that Bethamie’s daughter is Maryla’s friend. Now…Lord Gethen, he’s gentlefolk. Some of his armsmen come in here. Never heard a one speak ill of him, and more than a few tales of how he helped a widow or an orphan on his holding. Wouldn’t be surprised if some wouldn’t take a blade for him.”

“Did you ever hear anything about a Lord Keistyn?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Henstrenn?”

“He’s the Lord of Duevek, isn’t he? Only thing I ever heard here is that he’s been hiring armsmen, anywhere he can get them. Been doing it for nigh on three-four years. Have to wonder where he gets the golds, when most of the lords haven’t been adding any armsmen at all.”

“What bothers you most these days?”

“Not having enough paying customers coming through the doors.” Haelora laughed.

Saryn laughed as well.

“You wouldn’t know what’s going on at the palace, would you?” asked the innkeeper. “Seems like we don’t get near as many palace armsmen anymore.”

“I know one company went north to Lord Gethen’s holding with the overlord-heir,” replied Saryn. “There are only half as many armsmen here now. But…” Saryn grinned. “You wouldn’t mind if some of the Westwind guards came here when they’re off duty?”

“Their coppers are as good as anyone’s, aren’t they?” Haelora smiled. “Besides, these days, it’s not like we’re turning away folks. We’ll give ’em more for their coppers than most, and we don’t water the beer or the wine.”

“That’s good to know.” Saryn rose. “Thank you. You won’t mind if I stop when I can?”

“That I wouldn’t.” Haelora stood. “You’d be welcome anytime.”

As she left, Saryn just hoped that would always be the case.

In the end, Zeldyan decided that the first regency visit should be to Lord Barcauyn.

“That way,” she had explained to Saryn, “you will see for yourself how little the eastern border means to the holders of the west. Then we can make our way farther north to see Lord Maeldyn and possibly Spalkyn, then visit Lord Deolyn before heading back and stopping at The Groves on the way.”

“You think Deolyn will tell us something of the Suthyans?”

“Either in words or actions,” Zeldyan replied.

And that was how, after a ride of four days that took them slightly south and all too far west for Saryn’s comfort, even with all of fourth squad and a squad of Maerkyn’s armsmen, they entered the holding of Cauyna. In time, she found herself sitting on the expansive second-story terrace of Lord Barcauyn’s villa, looking at the hills to the east beyond a meandering and placid stream, on the far side of which was the town of Arkyn. On that sevenday evening, the setting sun bathed the hills and the town in a reddish light, while the villa shaded the terrace, and a breeze from the east made the air almost pleasant for Saryn.

The comfortable cushioned wooden armchairs were set in a semicircle, facing outward, with Lady Zeldyan in the center chair, the gray-haired Barcauyn to her right, and Barcauyn’s eldest son, Joncaryl, to her left. Saryn was seated beside Barcauyn, while another son, Belconyn, sat beside his older brother. Barcauyn’s consort was nowhere to be seen.

“…a great surprise to see you, Lady Regent,” rumbled Barcauyn. “A most pleasant one, I must say. I had thought all your attention was devoted to the difficulties to the east.” He glanced toward Saryn. “The presence of the arms-commander gives me hope that now the regents might pay greater attention to our difficulties here.”

“There are difficulties everywhere these days,” replied Zeldyan. “How do you view the problems…to the north?”

“What problems? We had not the forces to hold Rulyarth, and we did not. The Suthyans wanted the port in a way that would have been far too costly for us to hold. Yet they will trade with any who care to trade. They care little for expanding, now they have reclaimed what they believe is theirs. On the other hand, that demon Deryll will bleed those of us in the west dry.”

“We will talk of Deryll in a moment,” Zeldyan said smoothly. “I have heard words that suggest the Suthyans have been in rather close contact with the Prefect of Gallos.”

Barcauyn laughed, a deep, rolling sound. “Most likely with his departed son.” He turned to Saryn. “I understand that Arthanos squandered an army of close to ten thousand men trying to retake the Roof of the World.”

“Nine thousand, Lord Barcauyn,” replied Saryn. “A few hundred escaped.” She paused, if briefly. “He may have thought of it as ‘retaking,’ but as I understand matters, when the Marshal created Westwind, the lands in question were thought to belong to Lornth. Perhaps I should leave sleeping snakes cold, but I have great doubts that, had he been successful, Arthanos would have returned the lands on the Roof of the World to Lornth.”

“Ha! Right you may be, but it’s not worth talking about, because your Marshal assured it didn’t happen, and I’ve never seen much gain in jawing about how things might have been.”

“Nor I,” answered Saryn. “I only raised the point as an indication that Gallos and Suthya are not to be dismissed when considering what may happen.”

“In the future, when Karthanos dies, and he well may have already, from what I hear, there will be a contest over who will be the next prefect. That prefect will have to consolidate his power. Only then, and that will be years from now, will anyone need to fear Gallos, and I dare say that your Marshal will put a stop to any designs that prefect has on the west. The Suthyans always want someone else to fight for them, so that they can sell weapons and goods to both sides. So long as we do not fight, they cannot profit from selling weapons and food. But the west, that is where the threat to Lornth lies. If I look to the hills that mark the west of our holding, I see all that separates us from the Jeranyi. Beyond those hills are grassy plains stretching all the way to Bornt. Those are the demon-cursed grasslands that spawned the Jeranyi.” Barcauyn’s voice was level but not free of the bitterness behind it. “You may not remember it, Lady Regent, for I was barely more than a boy when they last swept out of the hills into the western hamlets of the holding. They made off with hundreds of cattle and sheep and a score of women. I even knew one of the girls they took. Lovely thing.”