The Unwilling Warlord by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page B

to be no less than Anduron’s, and his age was probably similar. He wore a red kilt and red-embroidered yellow tunic, and smelled of nothing but leather and sweat.
    “Shemder the Bold,” said the third, without ceremony. He fell between the others in height, but clearly weighed less than either of them, being thin and wiry, and was younger as well, surely no more than twenty-five — but still older than Sterren. His garb was similar to Arl’s, but more ornate and better-kept, and Sterren could detect no odor at all.
    These three were more or less displaying the forms of deference due a superior, but it was obvious they did not really feel any of the respect those forms implied.
    Lady Kalira had been subtler in her contempt.
    “I’m Sterren of Ethshar,” Sterren replied, bowing in his turn. He pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, refusing to yield to the Semman usage. After all, he thought resentfully, Semmat did use the TH sound — just not in combination with SH.
    “Your pardon, my lord,” said Anduron, “but would it not be more proper to call yourself Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma?”
    Anduron’s words were smoothly spoken, and Sterren would have liked to make a graceful reply. His limited knowledge of the language forced him to make do with, “I guess you’re right. I’m still new at this.” He smiled, not very convincingly.
    Behind him, Alder was hurriedly stuffing the last few bites of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth.
    The three new arrivals stood stiffly silent for a moment.
    “Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, finally, “you sent for us?”
    “Yes,” Sterren said. “Of course. Sit down.” He waved at the chairs in the various corners. Alder was just getting up from the chair at the desk, and after an instant’s hesitation Sterren settled on the foot of the bed instead of trying to maneuver behind the soldier.
    The officers obeyed, bringing the chairs to a rough semi-circle. Once seated, they stared stonily at Sterren.
    He took a deep breath, and delivered his little speech, two of the longest sentences he had yet contrived in Sem­mat.
    “I called you here because I am told I am a warlord now, whether I like it or not. I think I need to find out what that means, and what it is I am expected to do.”
    The officers still stared silently.
    “You aren’t making this easy,” Sterren said, blinking at them.
    “Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, “you still haven’t told us what you want of us.”
    “What I want,” Sterren said, “is to know what I, your warlord, am expected to do. I want you three to tell me.”
    The three exchanged looks.
    “My lord,” Shemder said, “it is not our place to tell you what to do. It is your job to tell us what to do.”
    Sterren suppressed a sigh. Whether they resented the elevation of a stranger as their superior, or whether they were testing him somehow, or whether they were simply stupid or stubborn or unimaginative, Sterren had no way of knowing, but he could see plainly enough that his officers were not going to be a great deal of help.
    At least, not at first. Perhaps they would adjust eventually.
    “Lord Shemder . . .” he began.
    “I am no lord,” Shemder interrupted.
    Sterren acknowledged the correction with a nod, and said, “Shemder, then, tell me your duties.”
    “My duties, Lord Sterren?”
    “Yes, your duties.” He hoped he hadn’t gotten the wrong word.
    “I have no duties at present, my lord; I am the commander of the Semman cavalry, not a mere guardsman.”
    “Cavalry?” The word was unfamiliar.
    “Cavalry.”
    Sterren looked at Alder, who supplied, “Soldiers on horses.”
    Sterren nodded, filing the word away. “Cavalry. Good. You’re the commander of the Semman cavalry. Do you have a particular title? Do I call you my lord, or commander?”
    “Captain, my lord,” Shemder said grimly. “You call me Captain.”
    “Thank you, Captain Shemder. And Captain Arl, is it?”
    “Yes, Lord Sterren.” Where Shemder had sounded