Arms-Commander

LX

The late-summer sun’s white heat blistered its way through the clear green-blue of the sky the entire two days of the ride from Carpa to Masengyl, and the closeness of the road to the River Yarth assured that the air was not only hot but damp-as were Saryn’s uniforms. The first night found them in the small town of Zadrya, where Zeldyan exercised the regent’s prerogative and commandeered the only two inns for the night.

An early start on eightday morning, and a long day’s ride, brought them to the town of Gaylyn, and Masengyl, the hold of Lord Shartyr, just at sunset. As they rode across the causeway over an ancient dry moat, Saryn could see immediately that Masengyl was a hold that dated back centuries, with moss and darkened stones on the lower walls, while the upper ends of the crenelated parapets were bleached a light gray that was almost white. The recessed gates in the main walls suggested that the causeway might once have held a drawbridge lowered from the twin towers.

A single player trumpeted their arrival from the southern tower. As she rode past the open gates, Saryn noted another thing. While the wrought-iron straps and braces binding the heavy wooden gates were black with age, the massive hinges had been recently oiled and cleaned, and the blades presented by the squad of armsmen clad in green-and-cream uniforms and arrayed in formation on the steps to the inner keep were polished…and sharp.

At the top of the stone steps stood a tall man arrayed in green and silver who waited until Zeldyan and the entire group had halted. Then he waited longer until the courtyard was totally silent. Finally, he spoke.

“My Lady Regent, we are so glad that you have chosen to grace us with your presence and that you’ve taken the time to visit Masengyl. If we had known sooner, we could have offered you a truly grand reception.” The silver-haired and angular lord turned his flashing smile, and his slightly yellow teeth, toward Saryn. “Arms-Commander! Such a great honor. Seldom have any holders had two such powerful and noted women in residence at the same time, however brief that residence may be. We will endeavor to make your stay as refreshing and as restful as possible, but not without offering you the best repast possible on such very short notice…”

“We deeply appreciate your hospitality, Lord Shartyr,” replied Zeldyan, “and particularly your support of the traditions of Lornth that the regency has continued to maintain.”

“And in the name of the Marshal of Westwind,” added Saryn brightly, “I also thank you for your kindness, especially toward those with whom you have far less acquaintance.”

“Both of you are most charming to a lord who so seldom sees power and beauty combined. I bid you welcome and look forward to dining with you.” Shartyr bowed and stepped back.

Another trumpet flourish sounded, and Shartyr stepped back into the keep.

“Shartyr does like appearances,” murmured Zeldyan, before she rode forward to the keep staff who awaited her at the foot of the main steps.

Saryn rode beside Klarisa around the side of the main keep, following a functionary in dark green-and-gray livery.

“Squad leader,” Saryn said in a low voice, “find out everything you can about the arms and armsmen of the holding, and who may have visited. Do it casually, and don’t mention a word to anyone else until you report to me…after we leave tomorrow.”

“Yes, ser.” Klarisa nodded.

“Keep your eyes open and post a watch.”

Once Saryn was satisfied with the arrangements for the guards, she walked back across the courtyard to the side door of the keep. She carried her own saddlebags.

There, at the door, the nearly silent functionary bowed. Beside him was a young woman. “Mistress Eralya will see you to your quarters, Commander.”

“Thank you.”

Eralya bowed in turn. “If you would follow me…”

Not until they reached the third level and Eralya had closed the chamber door did the young woman speak again. “Commander, if you need anything…anything at all…I’ve poured warm water for you, and fresh towels.” The girl’s eyes flicked to the battle harness and blades.

“Yes,” said Saryn gently, “I carry them all the time. All Westwind guards do.”

“Yes…Commander…”

Saryn could sense that the girl wanted to ask something but dared not. So she went on, trying to determine what that might be from Eralya’s reactions. “We train all the women and girls in Westwind to handle blades and bow, but we’re not the demons some think we are. That’s one reason why we’re with the regent. We’d prefer to be on friendly terms with her, and see the regency continue peacefully until Lord Nesslek reaches his majority. The Gallosians weren’t so friendly, and now they’re without an army…”

“Is it true…you’re really an angel?” Eralya finally whispered. “And you come from beyond the Rational Stars?”

Saryn nodded. “Our ship was damaged in battle, and we could not return. We had to land on the Roof of the World.”

Abruptly, the girl bowed again. “If you need anything…just ring the bellpull there…doesn’t matter how late it be, Commander…or how early.”

“I trust I won’t have to bother you, Eralya, but thank you.”

“Being my pleasure, Commander.” The girl backed out through the doorway, closing the door behind her.

Why did she want to know about our coming from beyond the Rational Stars? And why the Rational Stars? Saryn wondered, not for the first time, what superstitions lay buried in Lornian culture. She turned and surveyed the chamber. While it was on the third level, it was at the rear, if on the side away from the kitchen, but overlooking the barracks and stables. The rear walls of both barracks and stables were either part of or directly against the walls of the hold itself. She counted four barracks, each of two levels, and what looked to be four stable buildings. Her chamber was large enough, and furnished with a dark wooden bed, whose headboard was carved with military emblems and crests, but the old weapons rack, the plain wash table, and the location of the room at the end of the hallway seldom used was an indication of the lower level of mere arms-commanders, at least in the eyes of Lord Shartyr.

After washing up, she donned the dressiest uniform she had, not that it was terribly so, but she had the feeling that Shartyr would be splendidly attired. When she descended to the main level and the salon adjacent to the dining area, she was not disappointed.

Shartyr wore a shimmersilk tunic of brilliant green, trimmed in silver, over black trousers and boots polished to such a state that they reflected the oil lamps in the polished-brass wall sconces. With him was a younger woman, if somewhat older than Zeldyan or Saryn, also dressed in a green gown, but of a darker shade. Zeldyan was attired more plainly, in a simple but elegant high-necked, deep blue gown. All three stood before an open set of double doors through which flowed a slight breeze, if one barely cooling.

Shartyr inclined his head to Saryn. “This is my distant cousin, Amelyna, who has been keeping me company this summer. Amelyna, this is Saryn, the Arms-Commander of Westwind. You know, the fearsome warrior-women of the Roof of the World.”

Amelyna inclined her head and bowed, murmuring, “Commander.”

Saryn sensed subdued but clear fear in the attractive black-haired woman and merely returned the greeting. “Amelyna.”

“As I was telling my Lady Regent,” continued Shartyr, “there will just be the four of us tonight, but the splendor of the company will surely compensate for the lack of others. Might I offer you some wine? I do recommend the golden amber.”

Saryn glanced to the goblet in Zeldyan’s fingers, which held an amber vintage. “How can I refuse the recommendation of a lord of such noted taste?”

“I can see that my Lady Regent has been telling tales again.” Shartyr laughed warmly.

Saryn sensed little real warmth behind the words. “Only about your tastes and your grace and wit, and surely that is no secret among the lord-holders of Lornth.”

“Certainly not to my Lady Regent,” replied Shartyr.

Even without her ability to sense people’s feelings and order-chaos flows, Saryn would have been able to pick up on how the use of “my Lady Regent” grated on Zeldyan, even though she gave no outward response to the words.

Shartyr glided to the high circular table on which rested several carafes. After setting his own goblet down, he half filled the remaining empty one-of pale green crystal-and returned, holding his own goblet in the other hand, and tendered the goblet to Saryn.

“Thank you.” Saryn offered a polite smile.

“I trust you will find it at least as flavorful as anything found in the heights.”

“Far more flavorful, I am certain,” returned Saryn. “The Roof of the World is not kind to subtlety or subtle flavors, and I doubt that it will ever be.”

“You see, Shartyr,” Zeldyan said, “she understands you are a master of subtlety.”

“My dear Regent, you do me too much honor.”

Saryn took the smallest sip of the wine. It was good. “This is one of the best wines I’ve had since I’ve been in Lornth.”

“That is because it is one of the best wines in Lornth,” replied Shartyr.

“You must be able to sell it to the Suthyans for a goodly price,” suggested Saryn. “Pardon me, but my inquiry does show my lack of subtlety.”

“One can be too subtle about some matters,” commented Zeldyan.

“Alas, I part with some of it for practical purposes, and for not so much as it is truly worth, yet one must do what one must in these troubled times.”

“Have you hosted many others this summer?” asked Saryn. “You have such a distinctive keep here.”

“Distinctive?” Shartyr laughed. “It is one of the oldest in Lornth, and its greatest distinction is that I have been forced to spend many golds in rebuilding it. My father, alas, was not the best in managing the lands, and so I have had to spend much time almost as a factor and trader in order to make things prosper once more.”

“You have done well,” added Zeldyan. “Your armsmen look most accomplished, and you have, what, six companies?”

“Hardly that, my dear Lady Regent. I have barracks that will hold eight, and adequate stables, but no lord-holder of Masengyl has maintained any number close to that in generations. I count myself fortunate to have two companies. Of course, having the space does mean that I can accommodate your men.” Shartyr turned to Saryn. “And your guards, without any crowding.”

“For which the guards and armsmen are both grateful,” replied Saryn, “as am I, and, I suspect, so is Lady Zeldyan. Tell me, since I am new to Lornth…you must come from a long tradition of success with arms. A hold this strong and this established would not seem likely to have endured without such.”

“Such a perceptive inquiry,” mused Shartyr, beaming at Amelyna, “don’t you think so, dearest?”

“She recognizes your stature and worth,” replied the black-haired woman, her voice barely short of simpering.

“As do all in Lornth,” added Zeldyan.

“I cannot claim much prowess in arms,” admitted the lord-holder. “Without such, I am most careful in selecting those who are, for are we all not judged not just by what we are and what we do ourselves, but by what those with whom we surround ourselves are and do?”

“Most certainly,” replied Saryn. “It is clear that you have thought this matter through with great foresight, as you must have many things.”

While Saryn had no doubts that she and Zeldyan would survive dinner and the evening, it was clear that it would be exceedingly and politely cutting and arduous, and that she would learn little except just how courteously slithery Shartyr could be.