L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“…don’t see why we couldn’t. We shoot better than any of the guards.”

“Because that would be too great an insult. It would only make them more intransigent,” the Marshal said.

“They’re already intransigent, Mother.”

“No.” The single word was low, but carried enough ice and force that Dyliess stiffened.

“You will not. Now…” Ryba continued more softly. “You will keep the other two out of sight, but you three may observe from the second level of the tower. I want you to watch closely enough that you can describe Envoy Suhartyn perfectly and tell me exactly what sort of man he is and what he is thinking at each moment. I also would like you to be able to pick out any member of their party who appears dangerous.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good. Round up the other two and take your positions. Not a word…and you cannot let them see you.”

Dyliess turned and hurried up the steps.

Saryn waited several moments before crossing the black-stone foyer. “Everything is in readiness, Marshal.”

“Except for my daughter and her accomplices.”

“She wanted the trio to be part of the demonstrations?”

Ryba nodded. “It would do no good, as we both know.”

“It might frighten them into building an alliance with everyone against us, you think?”

“That’s possible. Right now, the rulers of those lands bordering the Westhorns all have the idea that disaffected women from their lands and elsewhere comprise the majority of Westwind. They can accept that, if reluctantly. If they see that we’re able to actively train and develop another generation in addition to those who flee, that will intensify their opposition. Right now, that’s outside their belief structure. They just don’t think that way, and I’d like to leave it like that as long as possible.” There was the briefest pause before the Marshal added, “And please don’t tell me that we can’t keep training youngsters if they aren’t born here. You’re right about men, but I don’t have to like it.”

Saryn understood those words were the greatest concession she’d get from Ryba on that.

A single horn triplet echoed down from the upper levels of the tower.

“It won’t be long now before the Suthyans are here,” Saryn said.

Ryba and Saryn walked from the base of the stairs across the foyer, halting just short of the closed ironbound door that afforded access to the causeway where the Suthyan envoy and his escorts would rein up. Only when the Suthyans were in position would the two women step out to greet the functionary and his entourage.

“He has two squads of troopers.” Ryba wore a silver-gray tunic, belted in black, above black trousers and boots.

“That’s enough to protect him and not enough to be considered a challenge.”

“It’s also an expression of their beliefs. They’re traders who’d rather not spend any unnecessary golds. In the end, they’ll be easier to handle than Arthanos.”

“Because they’ll weigh the cost of losing men against the dubious value of controlling inhospitable territory, while Arthanos will fight to maintain the myth of masculine superiority?”

Ryba nodded. “But traders are more likely to deal in treachery because it costs fewer golds.”

The tower door opened, and Llyselle stepped into the foyer. “The envoy is here, Marshal.”

The Marshal stepped forward, and Saryn followed, a pace back. Once outside the tower, Ryba halted on the wide single stone step above the stone-paved causeway. Saryn stood by her left shoulder and Llyselle by her right.

Suhartyn and a half score of Suthyans were reined up on the causeway, with guards on each side. The remainder of the Suthyan force was reined up on the road leading to the stables. Saryn had also taken the precaution of stationing several archers inside the tower windows overlooking the causeway.

For a moment, Ryba said nothing. She just stood there, radiating authority. Then she spoke. “Welcome to Westwind, Suhartyn, as envoy and honored guest. While we can provide but austere hospitality, that we do offer.”

“I am pleased to be here, Marshal. All have heard of Westwind. All know that the only entry is as a guest, and we look forward to learning more about the Roof of the World.”

“We will be pleased to let you see Westwind.” Ryba smiled. “Once you have had time to settle in the guest cottage and your men in the auxiliary barracks, we will be offering you some demonstrations on the arms field that I am most certain you will find entertaining.”

“Entertaining, Marshal? Or of great interest?” Suhartyn offered a smile that was half-pleasant and half-ironic.

“We would hope that you would find it both interesting and entertaining. After that, your men will be fed, and after that you and your closest advisors will join me and mine.”

“You are most gracious, Marshal…”

Saryn sensed that Suhartyn had expected Westwind to be far more elaborate than he had found it and that he had expected a far grander welcome, perhaps because of all the rumors that had filtered across Candar in the past years.

“Grace we can provide, most honored Suhartyn, but expansive and elaborate banquets are limited here on the Roof of the World. But then, when we arrived…there was nothing here. In another ten years you will not recognize it.” Ryba gestured. “My guards will escort you, and, in a glass or so, we will meet on the arms field for some diversion.”

Suhartyn bowed from the saddle. “We look forward to that, and to learning more about Westwind, for there must be far more here than meets the eye.”

“You will learn what you need to, and very little will escape your eyes. Of that, we are most certain.” Ryba inclined her head.

Saryn said nothing until the Suthyans and the two guard companies were well out of earshot, riding slowly up the stone road west of Tower Black. “I’d like to see how that pampered trader and his men would fare up here in winter.”

“About as well as I’d fare in Armat in midsummer,” Ryba replied dryly. “Is everything in place?”

“All the targets are set, and Hryessa’s first squad will mount up once everyone is gathered on the field. The other companies will be deployed in and around the tower and the stables, just to make sure that our guests behave.”

“I’ll leave you, and I’ll join you when the envoy heads down to the arms field.”

Saryn nodded and took her leave.

The sun was approaching the western horizon, seemingly barely a hand above the highest peaks, turning the glistening ice needle that was Freyja into shimmering golden white, when Suhartyn, flanked by four armsmen, walked onto the arms field. Ryba and Saryn stood waiting with ten guards from Llyselle’s second squad. Behind the envoy and his guards followed four other better-dressed men, also with guards. All wore heavy winter leather jackets, unlike the riding jackets of the Westwind contingent. Two of the four Suthyans following the envoy wore uniforms, and two wore more ornate riding garments.

“We are here at your pleasure, Marshal.” Standing before Ryba, Suhartyn was slightly shorter and considerably more rotund. His ginger beard was well trimmed and shot with gray, and his wary eyes were guarded by dark pouches beneath. His voice was high, not quite unpleasant. “What are we about to behold?”

Saryn felt Suhartyn’s company would prove wearying over time.

The Marshal gestured to the south end of the arms practice field, a good half kay from Tower Black and the stone road up to the stables. Ten woven brush-and-wood targets, each roughly the size and shape of a mounted armsman, stood solidly anchored in the stony ground. The section of each target that resembled a rider had a tunic and a breastplate and a battered helmet. “In a few moments, you will see. We should walk a bit closer.”