Arms-Commander

XCVI

Late on threeday afternoon, Saryn sat in the small study, looking at the missives stacked to one side. She picked up the top one, from Lord Whethryn of Tharnya, and scanned the lines.

…have discussed our sad situation with Lord Maeldyn and find, I must say, unhappily, that I agree with his proposal…would never have hoped for such…all other alternatives…impractical and worse…

The next, from the widow of Lord Rherhn, was even less palatable.

…understand that you, as Arms-Commander of Westwind, will play a role in determining my future and that of my sons and daughters…as one woman to another…can only plead that you will not destroy all that our family has held dear for generations…

Saryn wanted to snort at the widow’s plea. While the lord-holders had certainly been the prime players, and while the poor women of the towns and hamlets had little say, if even a few of the consorts of the lord-holders had been more forceful, the situation wouldn’t have been nearly so bad. Or would it? How would she ever know?

Finally, she stood and walked to the bookcase set in the middle of the inside wall, pressing on one of the corner bosses, one that was at the edge of the second shelf and ever so slightly more worn than the others. Then she swung the bookcase away from the wall, revealing a closet-or small room, really, since she’d not yet seen a true closet in any palace or villa anywhere in Lornth. Although she’d sensed the hidden space once she’d started to look for such, it had taken her a while to figure out the trick.

She studied the seven strongboxes on the shelves, then shook her head. She had been required to employ considerable effort with her order-chaos-abilities to open the heavy padlocks without destroying them, since she had yet to find the keys. The number of golds and silvers was considerable, more than enough to pay for the costs of operating the villa and paying the guard companies she would be supporting, possibly for several years. But having that much coin worried her, first because it suggested that the costs were far higher than she thought they were, and second because it revealed, again, that Lornth had nothing even approximating a banking system, another problem that she would need to address-assuming that she could pull off becoming and remaining overlord.

The other thing that she had noticed was the coins themselves. She’d observed earlier that the golds, silvers, and coppers were a mixed lot, some clearly Cyadoran, others Suthyan, or Gallosian, and even a few from Hamor and from someplace called Lydiar. None bore marks of having been coined in Lornth, yet another difficulty ahead. The other thing was that, what ever the source, the golds were all identical in weight and size, as were the silvers, but the size of the coppers varied a great deal, although the weights seemed to be the same.

She smiled briefly. In a way, that all made sense.

Her eyes drifted to the smallest of the strongboxes, the one that Dealdron had used to collect the loot and other items of value from battles and the like. It held close to a hundred golds in coins, and rings and jewels most likely worth several hundred golds, if not more.

He never took a copper himself.

She stepped back and closed the bookcase door, making sure that the catch and hidden lock were both engaged. Then she left the study, walked halfway down the main corridor, and took a side hall out to the north terrace, knowing that Dealdron was seated there.

As she neared, he put his good hand on the arm of his chair.

“Don’t get up. Your ribs still aren’t healed, and if you slip, you could hurt the arm.”

“I am much better, Angel.” He grinned.

“I can tell that.” Saryn managed not to flush as she took the chair in the afternoon shade beside his. He’d taken to calling her Angel after he’d sensed her reaction to the salutation, although he always spoke respectfully, and the feelings behind the words were a combination of respect and affection.

“Hryessa turned your strongbox over to me the other day. I forgot to tell you that it’s safe. I counted over a hundred golds.”

“It is all for you.”

“I know.” While some men would have said so after the fact, Dealdron had told her before the fact as well, and she could also read the truth in what he said.

“What do you think of this place?”

“It is much grander than Westwind. It is not so grand as the Prefect’s palace in Fenard, but it is much more pleasant.”

“You will have some time to explore it and offer your thoughts on how to change it for our needs.”

Dealdron frowned.

“The day after tomorrow, Hryessa and I and first company will ride to Lornth to meet with the remaining lord-holders and perhaps some of the heirs of those who died.”

“I will be much better.”

Saryn shook her head. “We’ll only be taking one wagon, and your injuries are not healed enough for travel, not when such travel is not necessary.”

“But…”

“You have done enough for now.” She smiled. “Besides, I like this place-except for the name-and it’s closer to the southern lords and to the roads across the Westhorns. Also, the lords or overlords of Lornth have left a bad impression on everyone. So…if matters work out, and they agree, however reluctantly, to my becoming overlord or the like, this is where the center of government will be.”

Dealdron gave a quick quizzical frown at the Rationalist word government, a term Saryn realized she’d never heard in Lornth, before saying, “You should call it Sarron.”

“That’s rather vain, don’t you think?”

“No. Sarron means peace in the old tongue. That is similar to your angel name, but it does not sound quite the same, and it is not spelled the same.”

“But the similarity would be helpful, you think?”

“You wanted to bring peace to Lornth, did you not?”

Saryn shook her head.

“Do not let them talk you out of being overlord, Angel.” Dealdron’s voice was firm. “All you have done and all the lives that have been lost will be wasted.”

“Become overlord at the point of a blade, if necessary?”

“As it must be,” he corrected her. “I am but a plasterer and an ostler, but I have seen enough to know that a weak ruler is the worst fate for any land.”

“What about those who rule by fear?” Saryn wanted to hear what he said.

“Those who rule by fear alone are weak. The proper use of strength is to create respect, not fear. Only those who wish to do evil should be fearful of a ruler.”

Saryn wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but she certainly agreed with the ideas and the sentiment behind his words.

“And to whom should a ruler listen? Besides you?” she asked with a smile.

“Listen to all,” he said, “but make your own judgment.”

Saryn sat back in the chair, letting her eyes take in the Westhorns and the dusty road she had ridden down three times, and back only twice…and which she now doubted she would ever take again to the Roof of the World.

Her eyes drifted to Dealdron…and she smiled.