Arms-Commander

XXVIII

Late on fiveday, a full eightday after they had reached Henspa, she and the guards-and the wagons-finally pulled up outside the stables at Westwind. Along the way, they’d had to replace one wheel, brace an axle and hope it held, and use the spare mounts to help the drays up the steeper grades. They’d also seen no other travelers, traders or otherwise.

Saryn groomed the gelding, then slung her gear over her shoulder and walked through the darkness down the road past the smithy, whose forge had been banked glasses earlier, and into Tower Black. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her and took just two steps when young Dyliess sprang up from where she had been sitting on the bottom step of the stone staircase.

“Commander…”

“I assume the Marshal wants to see me, Dyliess?”

“Yes, ser. At your earliest convenience.”

“Tell her that I’ll be there as soon as I drop my gear.”

“Yes, ser.” The silver-haired girl inclined her head, then turned and hurried up the steps.

Saryn followed, stopping momentarily to leave her gear in her own small cubby before resuming the climb to the top level of Tower Black. There, Ryba was waiting, seated at the small table, on which were set an amber bottle and two goblets. The single wall lamp offered more than enough light, given Saryn’s nightsight.

“Brandy again?” asked Saryn.

“You look like you could use it.”

Saryn took the empty chair and watched as Ryba half filled the small goblets, not really brandy snifters. Then she took a small sip, letting the liquid warm her mouth before swallowing.

“What took you so long?” Ryba finally asked.

“Success,” replied Saryn dryly. “We’ve got the sulfur and saltpeter. The Lady Zeldyan agreed to help immediately, but it took a bit to persuade the other regents-and several days to gather everything…” She gave a brief summary of the journey, ending with, “…I hadn’t realized how much the wagons would slow us down coming back up to the Roof of the World.”

“How much were you able to obtain?”

“Three small wagonsful,” Saryn replied. “And the loan of the wagons and the dray horses. We lost a wheel, and one of the wagons will need to be rebuilt before it goes anywhere.”

“Do you think we need to return them?”

“No one will complain, but it still would be a good idea.”

Ryba looked hard at Saryn. “Exactly what did you have to promise for all that?”

“My personal help to the lady, but only after we deal with the Gallosians.”

“Your personal help?”

“I could not commit Westwind.”

“Saryn…I would not…”

“What else did I have to offer? I’m no trader. I’m a former space pilot with skills in weapons and some ability to lead people. After this last trek, I’d never want to be a trader.”

Abruptly, the Marshal nodded. “Each of us is slave to what must be.”

“Must be…or might be?” asked Saryn.

Ryba smiled sadly. “Don’t you think that I’ve tried to change things from what I’ve seen? So far my attempts to change things have led to what has occurred, and so have my attempts to avoid changing things.”

“Predestination? No free will? Do you really believe that?”

“No. But I do believe that our exercise of free will leads to what will be and that there’s only one future. No matter what the talk may be about multiple universes branching off from any decision, we each only have the one future that we choose with each decision.”

Only one future, and that dictated by the exercise of free will? At that thought, Saryn took another, larger, sip of the brandy.

After a time, she asked, “When will the Gallosians attack? Sooner than you thought?”

Ryba nodded. “There are more scouts from the east, more refugee women, and no other travelers or traders.” She paused. “You’ve had a long trip. The kitchen should have a late supper ready for all of you in a bit. Go and eat. We’ll talk more later.”

“Until later.” Saryn rose and turned toward the open door.

Behind her, Ryba remained at the table, looking nowhere.

Saryn slowly made her way back down the steps to the main level.

There, Istril stood in the front foyer of Tower Black, as if she had been waiting for Saryn to descend from the Marshal’s chambers. “Welcome back.”

“Is anything the matter?” asked Saryn.

“You’ve changed.”

“Changed? What do you mean?”

“You’re more ordered. More black than chaos. Except that’s not right…they almost flow around you in ordered patterns.”

“What does that mean?”

“You already know that the more black you are, the harder it will be for you in battle, among other things. You’ve tried to avoid changing, and you have been successful, more than any other. But you’ve finally changed, and you look…you feel…different.”

Saryn smiled wryly. “You wouldn’t be telling me that if you didn’t have something in mind. What’s happened here that Ryba isn’t likely to tell me?”

“Besides the score or so of Gallosian scouts that have vanished? Or her trips up into the ice fields? Or the forty-odd Analerian women and their daughters who appeared last eightday?”

“Forty? Is Arthanos conducting some sort of purge in Analeria?”

“According to several of the women, he discovered that women actually serve as village elders and several village chiefs are women. One of them was killed because she had the temerity to be overheard by a Gallosian officer saying that she didn’t understand what all the fuss was about Westwind. The other villages nearby petitioned Karthanos to recompense the village, and Arthanos responded by burning them all to the ground.”

“Did they bring anything but the clothes on their backs?”

“You sound like Ryba.”

“I don’t mean to, but…”

Istril sighed. “Ten of them had burns that had gotten infected. One died. We saved the others. Seven or eight might make good guards with training, and most of the girls look healthy. There are fifteen girls and five boys, but none of the boys are over five. Arthanos had something to do with that. He captured the youths and men and killed any who wouldn’t join his army.”

“He sounds as bad as the Rationalists. Worse, actually.”

Istril just smiled sadly.

“You don’t think so?”

“We have a lot of time, especially at night, to think, Commander. I’ve thought a lot. Most rulers believe what they do is for the best. It might be best for themselves, or it might be best for what they believe in. Or for the people. Or for what ever god there is. Not many people do anything just to do it badly.”

“You don’t think there’s a difference between rulers?”

“Of course there is. Some are effective, and some are not. Ryba’s effective. Lord Sillek was not. Arthanos appears to be quite effective in raising an army. Ryba will be effective in destroying it. The Suthyans will be effective in profiting off everyone’s misery.”

“You’re saying that Lord Sillek didn’t believe enough in attacking us?”

“What do you think, Commander? You’ve been to Lornth. I haven’t.”

“His widow seemed to think he had doubts. Is that what it’s all about? To be effective, you have to believe in what you’re doing? To the point that it costs everyone around you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just thought about it a lot.”

“Maybe that’s why tyrants are effective,” Saryn said. “Because their beliefs are so important that they let nothing stand in their way. But is that the way things should be?”

Istril said nothing.

“Or is it just the way matters have to be?” Saryn didn’t want to think about that, not as tired as she was. “How are all the injured and wounded?”

“No one’s been hurt seriously since you left, except for the refugee women. Dealdron’s healing well. His leg is in a walking splint. You probably ought to talk to him tomorrow, after you talk to Siret.”

“Now what?”

“Siret can explain better than I can. It’s not that kind of problem. He works hard, and he works long. He doesn’t argue, and he always wants to do better.”

“Then…what?”

“It’s late, Commander. Could the three of us talk tomorrow?”

“That might be better,” Saryn conceded, even as she wondered what the problem could possibly be. Still, the fact that she couldn’t even guess suggested she wasn’t thinking clearly and that Istril was right about waiting to talk it over until the next day.