Arms-Commander

XX

Over the next two days, Saryn felt as though she ran from organizing one thing to another, but late on threeday afternoon, she finally headed up the stone staircase of Tower Black to check a last time with Ryba.

Just before she reached the open door, the Marshal said, “Come in, Saryn.”

When the arms-commander entered, Ryba was standing by the open window. She half turned. “I’m assuming that you’ve briefed Llyselle and Murkassa. You’re leaving early?”

“I did. We’ll leave before sunrise. I’m taking four spare mounts. They’re from the Gallosians, and we’ll use them as pack animals as well.”

Ryba pursed her lips. “I’ve thought it over. You’d better take half of Hryessa’s second squad as well. You can work that out, can’t you?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Ryba stepped forward and extended a leather wallet. “There are twenty golds’ worth of coins there. About half is in silvers. I’d like to send more, but that’s all we can spare right now. Lady Zeldyan and the regents should be hospitable enough that you’ll only need the coins while you’re traveling.”

Saryn took the leather wallet, slipping it into the inside pocket of her jacket. “Besides a commitment for saltpeter and sulfur, and the other useful goods, what else do we need?”

“You know the goods. See what you can discover about Kelthyn…and Ser Gethen’s health. Find out what you can about Deryll. It could prove useful to you in some fashion.”

“Ildyrom’s son? Do we know anything about him except his parentage?”

“He was successful in eliminating or besting all his brothers.”

“He’s ruthless, or clever, or lucky. Beyond that?”

“He wants the western part of Lornth back as part of Jerans, and he’s doubtless building the forces to take it. That’s all we know.”

“What about white wizards?”

“Zeldyan doesn’t have any. Not unless one has appeared in the past year or so, and that’s most unlikely. The engineer took care of all of those who served Lord Sillek. The Suthyans probably have some, but who knows where any who survived the fall of Cyador might be?”

“Is there anything else you want me to convey to Lady Zeldyan and her coregents?”

“Not directly. The information about Suhartyn’s veiled proposals, and your presence should be enough. Try not to stay too long.” Ryba’s faint and ironic smile conveyed the sense that she knew Saryn’s reply before the arms-commander spoke.

“I have no desire to stay a moment longer than necessary. It’s already going to be hot and sticky down there, and most of the towns will stink.” And I’ll miss the cleanliness and showers here at Tower Black, not to mention the clean mountain air.

Ryba nodded. “It will do you good to see the men of Lornth as well.”

Saryn flinched inside, but she only said, “They’ll likely be just as over-bearing as the Gallosians, except not quite so overtly.”

“If you’re fortunate.”

This time, Saryn nodded. “Is that all?”

“That’s all. If I think of anything else, I’ll tell you at supper or in the morning when I see you off.” Ryba turned back to the window, her eyes veiled.

As Saryn walked slowly down the stone steps, she thought over Ryba’s words and expressions. The Marshal had seemed distracted, and yet focused and removed, all at the same time. And she looked more drawn. But was she, or had it happened over time, and Saryn hadn’t noticed the gradual change?

When she reached the lowest level of the tower, Saryn found both Siret and Istril in sickbay, and both were silent, as if they had heard her boots on the stone steps and were waiting. “My ears are burning,” the commander said lightly. “Exactly what were you discussing? Or should I ask what you were saying about me?”

“We were talking about the Gallosian,” replied Siret. “Aemra has taken an interest in his carving. He’s actually done several good copies of the Westwind crest on new bunks. That created a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone wanted one. So we switched them for your bunk and mine and Siret’s,” said Istril. “No one could complain about the angels getting them.”

Saryn hadn’t exactly approved carving the crest on bunks all over the tower. Was Dealdron going to be like so many men and push every limit?

“You did say crests were acceptable,” Istril said.

“What about the one he did of the ryall?” Saryn sensed something was going on.

“He did three of those,” said Siret blandly.

“Three?”

“Aemra persuaded him to.”

“So the trio each have flowers? Flowers?” asked Saryn.

“They are wildflowers.” Istril grinned.

Saryn shook her head. “I don’t believe it. You…”

“They’re only girls,” said Siret.

“They’re guards.”

“They’re still girls who will be guards…when they’re older. Let them have a carved flower or two.” Istril’s voice was firm, and she looked directly at Saryn.

“Anyone can have anything carved on their bunk,” Saryn said dryly. After a moment, she added, “Anything suitable, and no larger than the Westwind crest. Flowers, crests, animals, designs.” She wasn’t about to fight that battle. “And the design and the carver have to be approved by Vierna. That’s just so things don’t get scratched into the wood.”

Siret and Istril exchanged glances.

Siret nodded. “Yes, ser.”

“We’ll tell Vierna,” added Istril.

After a moment of silence, Saryn said, “I need a moment with Istril.”

“I’ll be in the carpentry shop.” Siret stepped through the doorway and out of sickbay.

“What is it, Commander?” asked the older healer.

“The other day…you said that I would understand about sensing things. What exactly did you see?”

Istril offered a shrug. “I couldn’t explain it, Commander. Sometimes, what I see is as much feeling as foresight. There’s something all tied up with you and this trip and…people. I can’t say what. I had a good feeling about it, though. Or not a bad one, anyway.”

Saryn could sense the truth of that, but she also knew that Istril had seen more than she was willing to say. “That’s all you can say?” She tried to keep the irritation out of her words.

“That’s all I’d best say. I might make it worse if I said more. You know why.”

Saryn did. Trying to avoid or change what Ryba or the healers foresaw usually just made matters worse, often far worse.

“Except,” added Istril, “be kind to Lady Zeldyan.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“How could it, in her situation? Besides, being kind to her will only help you and us.”

While that was obvious, Saryn knew Istril was right and only trying to help. “One last question. The Marshal seemed drawn and tired. How is she? Physically, I mean? She doesn’t have some lingering illness or anything, does she?”

“There’s nothing physical wrong with her. She just sees too much. She’s trying to sort out what’s useful and what isn’t. Then she has to decide what she-and we-can do.”

“She’s always had to do that,” Saryn replied.

“She’s getting better at it. She’s written out an entire book of things. It’s for Dyliess and whoever becomes Marshal after her.” Istril paused. “How would you like to know chunks of future history and have to act on that knowledge? I wouldn’t want to. You’d never know if you could change things or if you should have done something different.”

Saryn nodded slowly. “Did she tell you that?”

“No. Not in words. I just…know.”

“Because you can do a little of it?”

“A little is too much. I wouldn’t want to know more.”

Saryn understood that. That kind of knowledge could be a set of chains. Was the tiredness she’d seen in Ryba the result of struggling with and against those chains? She shook her head. Was there any doubt about that?

Finally, she said, “Thank you.”