Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(106)

"Just asking."

"Try thinking," muttered Huldran under her breath.

Nylan barely kept from nodding at that.

"Anything else?" The marshal looked around the table.

Gerlich nudged the woman beside him.

"The roof in the showers leaks," ventured Selitra.

"We can't do much about that until spring," Nylan admitted.

"Sometimes the water freezes on the stones. That's dangerous," said the lithe guard.

"Getting up on that roof now would be more dangerous," pointed out Nylan. "And it's too cold for the mortar to set. We don't have roofing tar ... maybe by summer."

"I hope no one falls."

"Is there anything else we can do something about?" asked Ryba. "If not, that's all. Saryn . . . you stay. I'd like your estimates on what livestock should be slaughtered and how that might stretch out the feed and fodder."

As Nylan stood by the window while Saryn provided rough fodder estimates to Ryba, he listened to Hryessa and Murkassa, talking in low voices by the shelves under the stone staircase.

"... a third of a place filled with hay and grass, and they would start slaughtering now?"

"Would you wait until there was no food, and then kill them all, or have them starve?" asked Murkassa. "These women, they are smart, and the Angel thinks ahead, far ahead."

Perhaps too far, thought Nylan, turning back to the pair at the table. He hadn't liked Gerlich's using Selitra to bring up problems with the bathhouse, either. The engineer forced himself to take several deep slow breaths, then turned his thoughts back to the table, though he remained beside the frosted and snow-covered window.

"I'd say a sheep now, and another one in an eight-day ... two chickens ... lay in three days ... that leaves eight hens and four half-grown chicks."

"Mounts?" asked Ryba.

"There's one nag, gelded, barely gets around."

"See if Kyseen can make something there. Start with the nag, not the sheep. A sheep can give wool and food. A male that can't work and can't stand stud-that's useless."

Nylan half wondered if someday he'd be just like the poor nag. He pursed his lips and waited until Saryn strode out. Then he stepped up as Ryba rose from the chair. "In short," he said, "things are bad and getting worse, and it's going to be a long time before the snow melts."

"That's not a problem," said the marshal. "It's going to warm up within probably three eight-days. But it's likely to be almost eight eight-days before there's any spring growth, even in the woods, that the animals can forage through, or before Ayrlyn can get out and trade for food."

"Eight eight-days? That's going to be hard. Really hard."

"Harder than that. Much harder." Ryba walked toward the steps down to the kitchen area.





LVIII



THE TALL MAN smooths his velvet tunic before stepping into the tower room.

"You do honor to receive me, Lady Ellindyja," offers the tall trader.

Lady Ellindyja steps back from the door and offers a slight head bow. "I do so appreciate your kindness in coming to see one whose time is past." She slips toward her padded bench, leaving Lygon to follow.

As she turns and sits, she picks up the embroidery hoop, and smiles as she finds the needle with the bright red thread.

"Ah .. . my lady, you did-"

"Lygon, you are a trader, and you have dealt fairly with Lornth for nearly a score of years."

"That is true." Lygon runs his hand through the thinning brown hair before settling into the chair opposite Ellindyja. "I would like to believe I have always been fair. Firm, but fair." He laughs. "Firm they sometimes take for being harsh, but without a profit, there's no trading."

"Just as for lords, without honor, there is no ruling?" asks Ellindyja, her needle still poised above the white fabric of the hoop.

Lygon shifts his weight on the chair. "I would say that both lords and traders need honor."

"What weight does honor add to a trader's purse?" asks Ellindyja, her tone almost idle.

"People must believe you will deliver what you promised, that your goods are what you state they are."

"Do you tell people what to buy?"

Lygon frowns before he answers. "Hardly. You cannot sell what people do not want."

"I fear that is true in ruling, too," offers Ellindyja, her eyes dropping to her embroidery as the needle completes a stitch. "The lords of a land have expectations. Surely, you are familiar with this?"

"I am a trader, lady, not a lord." Lygon shifts his weight.

"I know, and you would like to continue trading in Lornth, would you not?" Ellindyja smiles.

"Lady . . ." Lygon begins to stand.

"Please be seated, trader Lygon. I am not threatening, for I certainly have no power to threaten. I am not plotting or scheming, for I have my son's best interests at heart. But, as any mother does, I have concerns, and my concerns deal with honor." With another bright smile, Ellindyja fixes her eyes on Lygon. "You are an honorable man, and you understand both trade and honor, and I hope to enlist your assistance in allaying my concerns." She raises the hand with the needle slightly to halt his protestation. "What I seek from you will neither cost you coin nor ill will. I seek your words of wisdom with my son, at such time as may be appropriate. That is all."