Arms-Commander

IV

In the late evening, Saryn and Istril sat in the darkness of the long room that doubled as the dining hall and common room of Tower Black, across from each other at the corner of the long table nearest the iron stove in the hearth. Neither needed light, not with their nightsight. Unlike Istril, who was full Sybran and bred to the cold, Saryn fully appreciated the residual heat from the stove. The bark tea remaining in her mug had cooled to lukewarm, but she enjoyed the warmth of the mug in her hands.

“We need more men,” Istril said, her voice low.

Saryn’s eyes darted upward, in the direction of the topmost levels of Tower Black.

“I know how Ryba feels,” the silver-haired healer continued. “Because many of the locals arrived pregnant or with children, it doesn’t look like that big a problem yet. But it will be.”

“There have been a few children born here from others,” Saryn offered. “Certainly, your three silver-tops-”

“Only one of them is mine, and half the time I’m not sure about that,” Istril said dryly. “They belong to each other more than to their mothers. Still…the three and Hryessa’s daughters are the only ones conceived and born here.”

Saryn could sense the hint of pain behind Istril’s words. Unlike any of the others, Istril had given up her son, Weryl, to his father when Nylan had left Westwind. Both Saryn and Istril knew that had been for the best. Neither spoke of it often, and then only fleetingly.

“We can’t keep counting on refugees,” Istril went on. “Each year they have to go through more to reach Westwind. It’s harder for those coming from the east. We have to find a way to get men who will fit with Ryba’s visions and views.”

“You want to turn men into what women are in the rest of this world? The men of this world would rather die, those worth having, anyway.” Saryn’s thoughts went back. Thousands of men had died trying to destroy Westwind. For what? To try to deny a few hundred women the right to live the way they chose?

“No,” replied Istril. “Why couldn’t we establish a better model? We could use crafters. What if we told the women who have come here to let their relatives know we welcome crafters, and that they would never have to bear arms or pay taxes-they call them tariffs here-but the price for that life was to pledge absolute obedience to the Marshal?”

Saryn shook her head. “Even if some would come, she’s not ready for that.”

“After ten years? How can there be a future for Dyliess if there are no men? Ask her that. How will her heritage go on? How will ours…” Istril’s voice died away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Nylan wasn’t my type, and Mertin never lived long enough…” Saryn took a sip of the cool tea, more to give herself time to think. “It might be…it just might…”

“What?”

“If we plant the idea that it will happen, if only after her death…and then ask if she would rather establish something that she can control, with rules and traditions…”

“You’re the only one she talks to about such.”

“And very seldom,” Saryn replied dryly. “I’ll have to be careful about when I bring it up and exactly how I approach it. She gets less approachable every year.”

Istril’s smile was faint and sad.

“How are those concentrate pills from the willow bark working?” asked Saryn quickly.

“I don’t know that they’re any more effective than the liquid, but they’re a lot easier to give, especially for the younger children. I can slip them inside a morsel of cheese or softened bread, and they don’t taste the bitterness. They only hold down the fever. It doesn’t help with the infection chaos, except that the body is more able to fight when the fever’s not really high.”

“I wish we had more…”

“Soap and water are the biggest help. That’s one place where the military discipline helps. They just have to wash up frequently.”

“I’ve told Llyselle and Hryessa that those who are lax should be assigned to cleaning the stone drainage channels and the millraces, and especially the sheep pens and the stables. It seems to help.” Saryn laughed softly.

“Do you know what Ryba has in mind for dealing with the Gallosians?”

“Not yet.” Although Ryba had said little, what ever strategy the Marshal adopted would be efficient and deadly.

“Maybe we could capture a few of the younger men, ones who are little more than boys.”

“They’d probably have to be wounded or disabled.”

Istril nodded. “With no future back in Gallos.”

“We thought that might hold Narliat and Relyn,” Saryn said. “Ryba will remember. She doesn’t ever forget.” Or forgive.

“It’s worked with Daryn, and Relyn hasn’t caused us any harm. His words might even have brought us some of the guards we now have.”

Neither mentioned that Narliat had died for his treachery.

Saryn yawned, then set her mug on the table. “It’s been a long day.” They all were, but spring and summer seemed short, even with the long days, because so much was necessary to prepare for the long winters.

Istril slipped from the bench and stood. “Good night.” She turned and headed for the stone staircase.

“Good night, Istril.” Saryn stood, then walked the length of the hall and into the kitchen, where she set the mug on the wash rack. She would have washed it, but she’d have wasted more water doing it than leaving it to be washed with the morning dishes. Then she walked slowly back through the empty dining hall-crowded to overflowing when in use, even with four shifts for meals-and up the stone steps toward the fourth-level cubby she rated as arms-commander.

Somewhere, she heard a child’s murmur, and the quiet “hush” of the mother.

There should be more, she reflected, realizing again that Istril was right. But…talking to Ryba about men or children was always chancy. It has to be done, and you’re the only one who can.

That thought brought little comfort as she settled onto her narrow pallet.