L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“No, they are not.” Saryn paused, then added, “But they are always far harder on those who stand against what must be.”

“If you will excuse us, Commander,” said Zeldyan gently, “I need a few words with Lord Barcauyn.”

Saryn nodded politely. After they passed, she walked out to the west terrace. It was empty…and unlikely to see anyone but her while she remained there.

Supper on sevenday was quiet and private, with only Lord Barcauyn, his consort, Lady Zeldyan, and Saryn. The atmosphere was also formal and chill. During the entire meal, Lady Barcauyn said fewer than twenty words, even in response to Zeldyan’s questions. Not a single word was directed to Saryn, who sensed a smoldering anger from the lady, clearly directed at her.

After all the events of sevenday, Saryn was glad to be up early on eightday, and even happier once they had ridden out of the villa and through the still-quiet town of Arkyn, headed eastward. By midmorning, they were headed north on another clay road, slightly wider, but no more traveled, under a slightly hazy sky, with a warm breeze at their backs. Saryn turned in the saddle, slightly, and asked, “What did Lord Barcauyn say to you, if anything, after his sons’ actions and yesterday’s…events. He was very polite at supper. Excessively.”

“We talked about what the other holders might do in regard to the regency and with regard to the Suthyan meddling. He is still greatly concerned about Deryll and the threat he sees in the Jeranyi. And, among other things, he apologized several times for offending my champion.” Zeldyan smiled wryly. “It appears as though that might be your role. He said that never had he seen someone so small who was so deadly.”

“He should see the Marshal, then,” Saryn said.

“He understands that you could have killed Joncaryl, or crippled him for life.”

“The problem is that Joncaryl doesn’t understand that. Nor does Belconyn. I don’t think they ever will.” Saryn glanced at the road ahead, but there the only riders were those of their party, and not a wagon was in sight anywhere. “Were the girls on the terrace his daughters?”

“They were. There is an older daughter who is consorted to the younger son of Lord Mortryd, who holds Tryenda.”

“I was never actually introduced to his consort,” Saryn pointed out. “Was that because she would have refused such an introduction?”

“I’m certain she would have,” replied Zeldyan. “She is…overly devoted…to her sons.”

“So her presence at supper was by command of her consort?” His way of declaring that he is the one who is lord of the holding.

“That can often happen in Lornth. More than once I did not speak at a meal when Sillek became overlord.”

“Women must obey, but they don’t have to pretend to like it?”

“I fear that is only true of those who are lord-holder born.”

With what Zeldyan had said earlier about the relations between lord-holders, that made sense. A consort could afford to express her dislike passively because the lord might still need the support of her father or brother or cousin…or not wish to alienate them unnecessarily.

“Joncaryl would have chopped me up if he could have,” Saryn pointed out, “and he and his brother would have knifed me in the back hall. And Lady Barcauyn is angry at me?”

“She worries that he may have to fight for the remainder of his life, and will die young because he was bested by a woman, one far smaller than he. Even Barcauyn worried about that. His hope is that your prowess will become known widely enough that Joncaryl will profit from surviving your blades. Lady Barcauyn is less certain that such will happen.”

For a moment, Saryn almost felt sorry for Barcauyn. The lord was caught between a chauvinistic tradition, an arrogant and spoiled son, and an excessively partisan consort and overly devoted mother. Still…“Lord Barcauyn was the one who pressed for the sparring match, and Joncaryl was totally insufferable. If I had demurred, Westwind would have no credibility, and I’d be of no support to you,” Saryn pointed out.

“But you would not be bested by any man. You would die before allowing that. Is that not true?”

Am I that stiff-necked? Or is it just because this frigging place treats women so badly?

“Is it not true?” asked Zeldyan again, gently.

“I’d like to think I’d have enough sense to recognize anyone who was superior, man or woman. The Marshal is a better warrior than I, and I’d be foolish not to acknowledge that.”

“But you will not be demeaned by those who are lesser in ability.”

“I’d rather not be,” Saryn admitted.

“Rather not?” Zeldyan offered a smile that was enigmatic, but behind it, Saryn sensed more-that Zeldyan believed Saryn inflexible and unwilling to submit to any man in anything.

Saryn just shrugged. After they had ridden another hundred yards or so, she asked, “What do you think Barcauyn will do?”

“Angry as his consort may be, he will not move against me. Not so long as you remain in Lornth.”

That’s just frigging fine. To keep these chauvinist idiots from undermining the regency, I have to stay in Lornth sparring against idiots with crowbars and sweating my way through summer and harvest…and who knows how much longer.

“Tell me about Lord Maeldyn,” suggested Saryn, “and his holding.”

“I have not talked with him often, and not in some time. He always seemed a man who kept his counsel to himself. I would judge him as one not to make hasty decisions.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“No…but sometimes those who do not wish to make hasty decisions make no decisions at all, or make decisions by not making them.”

Saryn had seen enough of that in her life. “What about his heirs?”

“I know little of them, save that he has at least one son and two daughters.”

“And the holding?”

“Unlike many, there is more than one town, but all three that might be called such are smaller than most holding seats. The largest is but half the size of Carpa-”

“That’s your father’s holding?”

“It would have been Fornal’s, but it will go to Nesslek, now.”

Zeldyan’s words confirmed that her brother had had no children-or no sons, at least.

“I’m sorry. What else about Quaryn?”

“The largest town is Ryntal, and Maeldyn’s keep overlooks the town. There are large woods in the hills to the north, and swamps beyond them…”

Saryn listened intently.

Several glasses before they reached Ryntal on threeday, Zeldyan dispatched one of the couriers traveling with them to alert Lord Maeldyn to their arrival. To Saryn’s eyes, as they rode into the town in late afternoon, Ryntal didn’t look all that much smaller than Lornth itself. Like most of the towns she had seen in Candar, it was located on a small river, although that description of the watercourse was charitable. Most of the dwellings incorporated more of a mixture of brick and timber, suggesting that good building stone was harder to come by-or that brick and timber were more readily available. The buildings were mostly neat and well maintained, and there were small barge piers on the river.

“Does the river flow into the one at Rulyarth?” asked Saryn.

“I don’t know the name of this river, but it does flow into the Yarth. That’s how Maeldyn gets his wool and hides to the traders there. Carpa is also served by the Yarth, and Father sends his wines down it. He used to, anyway. With the way the Suthyans have been refusing to pay what the vintage is worth, he’s been aging it more, hoping that prices will increase.”