“I did mark that.”
“Otherwise, take it that Lanfarnesse is loyal as a rock is solid, —and, like a rock, will prefer to sit. Lanfarnesse rangers are another matter.
They are not for battle in the field: Pelumer objects very wisely there, and did you ask him to lend you those men even to venture Marna, you might obtain a fair number of them. But Pelumer says this time he will commit archers in a pitched battle. I have found no reason to doubt his given word, m’lord King, and they will be well drilled.”
“You confess there is one honest man in council? You confess that Tristen is telling the truth?”
“As he knows it,” Idrys said, as if the irony of that were wasted on him. Likely it was not. Cefwyn waved a dismissal, sank wearily into a chair.
He had left himself nothing but war, from the time he had accepted the lady Regent’s hand.
The Elwynim lords and their men were saddling up in the stableyard, the afternoon of Cefwyn’s charge to them, and there were horses waiting for Cevulirn at the west door. Sovrag was off to the river, he said, to see to his boats; he had left at noon with two ox-carts loaded with cordage and pitch and another with seasoned wood. The lords of the south were all breaking camp and leaving with the same suddenness with which they had arrived, and Uwen said if one didn’t want to wait forever while master Peygan the armorer took care of the other business that His Majesty had set underway, it was a very good idea to get master Peygan started as soon as possible, the proper outfitting of a young lord for war taking a fair long time.
Uwen had known Peygan for years: Peygan had come from the capital with Cefwyn and had taken over an armory in disarray—so Uwen said on their walk across the yard. “The place was full of rats what ate the leathers, and the old armorer was drunk by day and night, with accounts all in a muddle, gods, ye’d be amazed.”
“What happened to him?” Tristen said.
“Oh, he took out the day we arrived and nobody’s seen ’im since. The old fellow wouldn’t complain, that’s what I guess. That rascal Heryn was making of them books what he liked, and the old armorer knew he should have taken the business to the King, but he drank, instead, being afraid to report the state things was in. The armorers, ye may know, m’lord, is all Crown men, master and ’prentices, alike, so’s ye ain’t dealin’ with anyone of Heryn’s lot, here.” “They belong to the King?”
“Same as all the arms stored here, m’lord, in name, at least. The lords is to manage it all, and the King’s armorers is to keep accounts. And accounts gets kept, now. They don’t put nothing over on master Peygan.
If something’s broke it don’t go on the rolls.”
They walked up the steps, and into a place which had fascinated him and frightened him from the first day he had seen it, a place with Words echoing of War, and Iron, and Blood, a place with rows and rows of orderly weapons, displayed on the walls and in the racks, banners hanging in still array.
He wished to turn on the step now and rush out of the place, and not to take anything it offered. He disliked the mail shirt he was bidden wear, although it had saved his life. He had no desire to have any armor heavier or more extensive than he did—and most of all he dreaded the dark and metal feeling of this place.
But Uwen was to draw armor of a guard issue better than he had ever worn, which pleased Uwen mightily; Uwen was carrying a paper to that effect, which Idrys himself had given him, commissioning him into the Dragon Guard: and Uwen’s enthusiasm made him think differently from moment to moment, that it was not the armor that threatened to smother him, but the constraints of purpose it imposed—and that it was not the weapons that frightened him, but the skill in his own hands.
“Heavy armor,” Uwen said. “Plate and chain. If happen somebody bashes ye square down on the shoulder, m’lord, as do happen in a close tangle, or if ye catch a lance-point, a lot better you should have plate.
The King,” Uwen added, “wouldn’t be limping about now if he’d had a good Cuisse in that melee, ’stead of them damn light-horse breeches.”
It was a language of its own. The names of the pieces and of the weapons did come to him, and he knew that Uwen was right, for a man who did not look to ride hard or fast.
“But,” he said, while they waited for attendants in the darksome and echoing hall, “are you happier with it, Uwen?”
Uwen laughed. “M’lord, I’m a Guelen man. We was always the center of the line, heavy horse and foot. It ain’t but since I turned gray they sent me to protect young lords who fly off in the dark wi’ naught but a mail shirt and a stolen horse.”
46O
He did not think Uwen should joke about that. He knew he had been rash and he wished that Uwen would not follow him if another such moment came on him—that was the consideration Cefwyn had laid on him, by giving him Uwen.
Peygan came, welcomed them, looked at Uwen’s paper and gave it to a boy who gave it to a clerk who was setting up in the entry. Master Peygan looked him in particular up and down, muttered, “Tall, sir,” and with a well-used piece of cord took various rapid measurements of his limbs and across the back of his shoulders.
“I’ve little that will serve,” Peygan said, then. “At least—that I’d have confidence in. His Majesty gave strict orders, and I must say, it will not be gold or gilt, Lord Warden, nor pretty nor even matched. I cannot swear to that. But quality and a right fit I do swear to.”
“I’ve no objection, sir,” he said. “As best you can, sir—light. I wish to see.” He rarely objected to others’ choices. But this frightened him, despite Uwen’s assurances.
“A challenge, Lord Ynefel.”
“Yes, sir. If you please. And whatever Uwen wants—I’d have him safe.”
Peygan rubbed his chin, scratched his unruly hair—it was liberally grayed, like Uwen’s; and Tristen stood watching while Peygan measured Uwen, too.
“Hmm,” Peygan said, and walked off.
So he sat down to wait with Uwen for most of the next two hours, while the master armorer, clearly working on a number of requests at once, fussed and marked this and that strap his assistants would bring him, and a man Uwen said was Peygan’s son sat at a bench using an array of curious implements and mallets on the fittings Peygan had marked.
In time, Peygan came back bringing an armload of pieces, and cast them on a nearby bench.
“It’s old,” Peygan said, of a fine piece of brigandine. “Still solid, though they say—” Peygan seemed hesitant. “They say it’s Sihhé work, Lord Warden.”
His fingers did not tingle when he touched it. It was black, and showed wear, and was not like what the Guelenfolk wore. But it felt right.
“M’lord,” Uwen said dubiously. “She’s pretty, but a lot’s come and changed. She ain’t modern.”
“Neither am I,” Tristen said. “Isn’t that what they say?” He liked weapons no better, but this was the only piece that made him feel safer.
“Mostly,” said master Peygan, “there’s no such silk these days. They say it came from oversea. There’s some as is afraid of the piece, truth to tell.”
He did look, in that gray place, but it showed not at all.
“There is no harm in it,” he said. “Though such things seem to come and go.” It felt comfortable to the touch. He could not say the same of the mail shirt he wore. “I’d try it.”
Uwen was less pleased. But he said, “I am very sure, Uwen.”
Uwen gave a tilt and a shake of his head. “Might be, then, m’lord.”
The straps and laces of the silk-woven brigandine were worn, and wanted work. And Uwen was still to fit out. So they waited. The armory was echoing with the comings and goings of Peygan’s boys, who were, by now, with the afternoon’s work in full clatter and bustle about them, counting out to Guelen and Amefin sergeants and attendants the equipment they requested, and counting in what tents and wagons and other such things the departing lords were leaving behind.