The Unwilling Warlord Page 6

  “My lord speaks Semmat like a native, of course,” Lord Anduron said. Shemder interrupted him with a quickly-suppressed burst of derisive laughter. Lord Anduron cast him a cold glance, then went on, “The castle garrison, my lord, is composed of whoever happens to be inside the castle at the time of an attack.”

  “I see—you mean the nobles, and the servants, and so on?”

  “Why, no, Lord Sterren, of course not. One could hardly expect the nobility to soil their hands with the hauling about of gates and bars, or hurling stones, and the servants will have their normal duties to perform. No, I mean whatever villagers reach the shelter of the castle walls in time.”

  Sterren stared at Lord Anduron for a moment, then decided argument would do no good, most particularly in his limited Semmat. He turned his head and asked, “Captain Shemder, how many men and horses do you have?”

  “Twenty men, my lord, and twelve horses,” Shemder replied promptly and proudly.

  Sterren realized with a shock that his escort into the castle had been most of the cavalrymen in the entire kingdom—and all the cavalry’s horses.

  “Captain Arl?”

  “At present, Lord Sterren, I have sixty-five men and boys, all fully armed, well-trained, and ready for anything.”

  Sterren somehow doubted that the Semman infantry was ready for anything. What, he wondered, would they do in the face of an attack by the overlord of Ethshar of the Spices? Azrad VII had ten thousand men in his city guard alone. He could overwhelm Semma completely with a tenth of his soldiery, without calling on any of his more important resources—the militia, the navy, his magicians, the other two-thirds of the Ethsharitic triumvirate, and so on.

  But these were the Small Kingdoms, and things were obviously different here.

  The three officers all seemed very confident, certainly, and they surely knew more of the situation than he, a foreigner, did.

  Even so, eighty-five men and a few frightened refugees did not seem like a very large force for a castle the size of Semma’s.

  “Lord Anduron,” he asked, “what about magic?”

  The young nobleman looked puzzled. “What about magic, my lord?”

  “What magicians do you command?”

  “None, my lord; what would I have to do with magicians?”

  “Are they infantry or cavalry, then?”

  “No,” Arl said, as Shemder shook his head.

  “Aren’t there any magicians in the castle, then?” Sterren asked, truly frightened.

  The three officers stared at each other. It was Lord Anduron who spoke, finally, saying, “I suppose there might be one or two. Queen Ashassa keeps a theurgist about, Agor by name, and I’ve heard the servants chatter about a wizard among their number. The village has an herbalist or two, and a witch, I believe, but they aren’t in the castle. Lord Sterren, forgive me, but why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you use magic ... Isn’t it...” Sterren’s Semmat failed him momentarily. He took a deep breath, and began again.

  “In Ethshar,” he said, “Lord Azrad keeps the best magicians with him. They would use their ... their magic, if the city were attacked. Ships carry magicians, to defend against ... against other ships, which of course have their own magicians. No one would dare a big fight without magic.” He cursed himself and all of Semma for his lack of a correct title for Azrad, and the words for “spells,” “pirates,” and “battle.”

  For several long seconds the room was absolutely silent. Then Shemder spat a word that Sterren had never heard before.

  “Lord Sterren,” Lord Anduron said, “we do not use magic in war here.”

  Lord Anduron’s tone was flat and final, but Sterren could not stop himself from shouting, “Why not?” In his thoughts, which were in Ethsharitic, his phrasing was a good bit more colorful.

  “It isn’t done. It never has been.”

  Sterren stared at him for a moment. “I see,” he said at last. He blinked, and then said, “If you will forgive me, I am tired from my journey. I need to rest.” In truth, what he felt a need for was time to digest the situation. “Go now, and I will speak with you again later. Perhaps after dinner. I would like to ... to look at the soldiers.”

  “Review the troops?” Arl suggested.

  “I think so,” Sterren agreed, nodding. He stood up.

  The other three leapt up as well. Each in turn bowed, and then left the room.

  Lord Anduron bowed deeply, and swept out; Arl bowed stiffly, and marched out; Shemder bobbed his head, and stalked out.

  Sterren stared after them, then burst out, in Ethsharitic, “What a bunch of idiots!” He had been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt in regard to the numbers and preparedness of their forces, but to so completely and arbitrarily rule out the use of magic in warfare was ridiculous! What would guard them against treachery? How could they know what the enemy was planning? Who would heal wounds? Sending soldiers out to fight with nothing but swords and shields was truly barbaric.

  And most importantly, what would they ever do if they fought an enemy who did not bother with such scruples?

  Obviously, they would lose, and lose quickly and decisively.

  He could only hope that nothing like that happened while he was warlord. His duty, Lady Kalira had told him, was to defend Semma, but some things were indefensible.

  An Ethsharitic obscenity escaped him.

  “My lord?” Alder inquired, startled by the outburst.

  “Nothing,” Sterren said. “It’s nothing.” His initial amazement at the idea of fighting a war without using magic was beginning to fade, and another thought struck him. “What was that that Shemder said, about using magic to fight?”

  Uncomfortably, Alder asked, “You mean that word, gakhar?” He shifted uneasily.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Sterren saw Alder’s discomfort, but declined to let him off the hook; he stared inquiringly.

  Reluctantly, Alder said, “It means a ... a person of no culture, a person not fit to be among ordinary people.”

  Sterren considered that, then stared after the vanished Shemder the Bold.

  “You mean he called me a barbarian?” Sterren was dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream with rage at the unbelievable insult of being called a barbarian by people such as these, but after a moment laughter won out.

  Alder stared at him, puzzled and amused, but not particularly displeased with his new warlord.

  Chapter Seven

  The clothes in the wardrobe did not fit him; Sterren, Eighth Warlord had obviously been considerably larger than was Sterren, Ninth Warlord. Not that he had been anything like Alder or Dogal, but he surely had the advantage of a few inches over his great-nephew, both in height and circumference.

  Even so, Sterren thought that he would do better to wear something from the wardrobe, belted up tight, than to try and get any more use out of his own tattered garments. He was to eat dinner with the king, at the High Table, and he had not a single tunic left that had neither patches nor major stains.

  Furthermore, he saw that all his clothes were cut differently from the prevailing mode in Semma. The local style was looser, more flowing, but with more fancywork to it.

  He picked out an elegant black silk tunic embroidered in gold, and a pair of black leather breeches—black seemed to be the predominant color in the collection, and he guessed it had something to do with the office he held. It seemed an appropriate color for a warlord.

  Of course, it might just be that his great-uncle had liked the dramatic, or had had a morbid streak, but in any case, black clothes might not look quite so oversized on him.

  He would, he thought with a sigh, have to alter all the clothes, take them in to fit him.

  No, he wouldn’t, he corrected himself, brightening up; he was an aristocrat now! He could find a servant to do that. The castle probably had a tailor somewhere.

  He pulled the tunic over his head and looked in the flaking, yellowed mirror that hung in the back of the wardrobe
.

  He shuddered. The tunic almost reached his knees; he looked like a little boy.

  He pulled on the breeches, then began adjusting belts and fabric.

  By tucking in the top of the breeches and folding under the cuff on each leg he was able to make them fit, though they were still rather baggy in spots. The tunic was less cooperative, but he finally contrived an arrangement of two belts, one under and one over, that pulled the hem up to a height he could live with. The embroidered sleeves he had to roll up.

  He was studying his appearance critically when someone knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” he called, unthinkingly using Ethsharitic.

  “What?” someone answered in Semmat. The voice was female, young and female.

  “Sorry,” he called, switching to Semmat as he adjusted his belts. “Who is it?”

  “The Princess Lura, Lord Sterren,” Alder’s voice replied.

  Sterren whirled around and stared at the door. A princess? He glanced down at himself.

  He looked foolish, he knew, but he would have to face this soon enough. He pursed his lips, and decided not to put off the inevitable. “Come in,” he called.

  The door swung open and Sterren looked up to see who was there, but at first he saw no one. Then he let his gaze drop.

  “Hello,” Princess Lura said, smiling up at him. “You look funny in those clothes. Don’t you have any that fit?”

  Sterren was not particularly fond of children, but Lura, who he guessed to be no more than nine, at the most, had an irresistable grin.

  Besides, she was a princess. He smiled back, and it was only slightly forced.

  “No,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t. The clothes I brought with me are all worn out.”

  “Can’t you get new ones?” she demanded.

  “I haven’t had time,” he explained.

  “Oh, I guess not.” Her gaze dropped for a moment, and an awkward silence fell, to be quickly broken when she raised her eyes again and said, “I wanted to meet you. I never met anybody from Ethshar before.”

  Sterren noticed that she pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, even when speaking Semmat, and nodded approvingly. “I can understand that,” he said. “I must seem ... um ... I must be like ... I guess you haven’t.” His Semmat vocabulary had failed him again. He hastened to cover over his slip. “I never met a princess before.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “Not even back in Ethshar?”

  “Not even in Ethshar. There’s only one princess in all of Ethshar of the Spices, and I never met her.”

  Actually, technically, there were no “princesses” at all, but Azrad VII’s sister, Imra the Unfortunate, was a reasonably close approximation. Sterren had no idea what her correct title would be in Semmat; in Ethsharitic she was simply Lady Imra.

  “Oh, we have lots of princesses here!” Lura announced proudly. “There’s me, of course, and my sisters—Ashassa doesn’t live here any more, she’s in Kalithon with her husband Prince Tabar, but there’s Nissitha and Shirrin, still. And there’s my Aunt Sanda. That’s four of us, not counting Ashassa.”

  Sterren nodded. “Four’s a good number, I guess,” he said, smiling foolishly.

  Lura’s expression suddenly turned suspicious. “I’m not a baby, you know,” she said. “You don’t have to play along with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sterren said, dropping the false smile, “I didn’t mean to ... to do as if you were a baby. Um ... how old are you?” He looked a little more closely at her face. He could not tell her age with any certainty, but he noticed a resemblance to her father, the king.

  “Seven,” she said. “I’ll be eight in Icebound. The ninth of Icebound.”

  “I was born on the eighth of Thaw, myself,” Sterren said.

  Lura nodded, and another awkward silence fell. The two of them stood there, looking at each other or glancing around the room, until Sterren, desperately, said, “So you just wanted to meet me because I’m from Ethshar?”

  “Well, mostly. And you are the new warlord, so I guess you’re important. Everybody else wants to meet you, too, but they didn’t come up here, I did. My sister Shirrin was scared to, and Nissitha says she doesn’t have time for such foolishness, but she’s just trying to act grown-up. She’s twenty-one and not even betrothed yet, so I don’t know why she’s so proud of herself!”

  Sterren nodded. Lura obviously loved to talk—another resemblance to her father, he thought. He wondered if he had finally found someone who would tell him everything he wanted to know about Semma Castle and its inhabitants; certainly, Lura wasn’t reticent.

  On the other hand, how much would she actually know? Gossip about her sisters was one thing; a warlord’s duties were quite another.

  “Are you really a warlord?” she asked, breaking his chain of thought.

  “So they tell me,” he said.

  “Have you killed a lot of people?”

  Sterren shuddered. “I’ve never killed anyone,” he said, emphatically.

  “Oh.” Lura was clearly disappointed by this revelation. She did not let that slow her for long, however.

  “What’s it like in Ethshar?” she asked.

  Involuntarily, Sterren glanced out the broad windows at the endless plains to the north. “Crowded,” he said. He pointed out the window. “Imagine,” he said, “that you were on the top of the tower at Westgate, looking east across the city. The eastern wall would be halfway to the ... to where the sun comes up, and everything in between would be streets and shops and houses, all crowded inside the walls.” He didn’t know any word for “horizon,” and hoped Lura would understand what he meant.

  Lura looked out the window, and asked, “What about farms?”

  “Outside the walls, never inside.”

  She looked skeptical, and he saw no point in arguing about it. “You asked,” he said with a shrug.

  She shrugged in reply. “You’re right,” she said, “I did. When are you coming downstairs? Everybody’s waiting to meet you.”

  “They are?”

  “Well, of course they are, silly! Come on, right now; I know Shirrin wants to meet you, especially.”

  “She does?” Even when he remembered who Shirrin was—one of Lura’s sisters, and therefore a princess—Sterren could not imagine why she would particularly want to meet him.

  “Yes, she does. Come on!”

  Sterren glanced helplessly around at the room. He had no idea what his position was relative to this little terror of a princess; certainly, she must outrank him, but would her youth affect her authority to order him about?

  He couldn’t be sure of that. Reluctantly, he followed her as she marched out of the room.

  Once in the hallway, Alder and Dogal fell in step behind him, and together the four of them tramped down the six flights of stairs to the door of the throne room. He stopped there to catch his breath while Lura waited impatiently.

  They did not enter the throne room, but turned aside at the last moment and headed down a short corridor and through an unmarked door of age-darkened oak. Beyond was an antechamber, panelled in smoke-stained wood and furnished with heavy velvet-upholstered benches; Lura led Sterren directly through this, and through another door.

  This gave into a sunny little sitting room, and as Sterren entered, Lura leading him by the hand, he glimpsed the inhabitants leaping to their feet.

  He found himself facing two women and a girl a few years younger than himself, all richly dressed, all standing and staring at him.

  “Shirrin, look who I found!” Lura announced.

  The girl blushed bright red and glanced about as if looking for some way to escape. Seeing none, she stared defiantly back at Sterren, her cheeks crimson.

  The older woman looked reprovingly at Sterren’s guide. “Lura,” she said, “watch your manners.”

  The younger woman simply stood, silently gazing down her nose at Sterren. It was quite obvious that she had notice
d his attire and didn’t think much of it.

  Or maybe she didn’t think much of him in any case; Sterren couldn’t be sure. He had the distinct impression, however, that the woman would have sniffed with disdain if sniffing were not perhaps a trifle vulgar.

  He smiled politely.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Sterren of Ethshar—Sterren, Ninth Warlord, they call me.”

  “My lord Sterren,” the older woman said, smiling in return, “what a pleasure to meet you! I’m Ashassa, formerly of Thanoria, and these are my daughters, Nissitha,” with a nod toward the younger woman, “and Shirrin,” with a nod toward the blushing girl. “Lura you have already met, I take it.”

  “Yes,” Sterren said, “she introduced herself.” He realized, with a twinge of dismay, that he was speaking to the Queen of Semma, and had presumably just come barging into the royal family’s private quarters.

  At that thought, he glanced around quickly.

  The room was pleasant enough; a floor of square-cut white stone was partly covered by brightly-hued carpets, and white-painted paneling covered the walls on three sides. The fourth side was mostly window, the glass panes arranged in ornate floral patterns and the leading picked out with red and white paint. Several couches stood handy, all covered in red velvet, and a few small tables of white marble and black iron were scattered about.

  Nothing was extraordinarily luxurious, however. Sterren had seen rooms of similar size and appointments, though never in any style quite like this one, back in Ethshar.

  The queen was nodding. “I’m afraid Lura can be somewhat impetuous,” she said. “Of course, we’ve all been looking forward to meeting you, our long-lost cousin.”

  “A very distant cousin, of course,” Nissitha interjected, with a meaningful glance at Sterren’s tunic.

  “Lura said that you wanted to meet me,” Sterren acknowledged. “She mentioned Shirrin in particular, though I don’t...”

  He was interrupted by a shriek from Princess Shirrin. The red had faded somewhat from her cheeks, but now it flooded back more brightly than ever, and she turned and ran from the room.

  Sterren stared after her, astonished.