Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(31)

"There's a bunch with a trading flag riding up toward our banner," announced Kadran as she rode up. "They've got a lot of weapons showing."

"That's probably wise in this culture," said the captain. "We'd better respond in kind."

"Ser?" asked Kadran.

"You find Fierral, and have her get all of you ready for another attack. It shouldn't come to that, but our local friend says some of these traders will take everything you have if you're not tough.

"Tell Istril to come with me, and get Gerlich and have him wear that big crowbar he's so fond of. And have Ayrlyn and Narliat come." Ryba turned to Nylan. "You, too. That will make three and three."

"I wouldn't know how to swing one of those things. I've had maybe three lessons, and Istril died laughing the first time," protested Nylan.

"Strap on a pistol and the blade. The locals don't see the slug-throwers as weapons. We need to get moving. Meet me over by those rocks as quickly as you can. I need to gather up the coin and jewelry we've got, and some of those crowbars that pass for blades." Ryba untied the reins and vaulted into the saddle of the roan.

As Ryba and Kadran rode off, Nylan shouted up into the unfinished structure. "Huldran! Cessya! Weblya! We've got company. Drop what you're doing, and form up with Fierral."

"Where, ser?"

"Up by those rocks, I think. On the double!"

Huldran laughed. "That's Svennish. 'Double-quick' is marine."

"Double-quick, then."

Nylan began to half walk, half run toward the lander that held his sidearm and the blade he had formed and did not still know how to use.

By the time he had reclaimed his gear and splashed water on his face and hands to get rid of the worst of the dirt and grime, and hurried up to the meeting point, Fierral and two others watched from the top of the western ledge, the weapons laser ready.

Nylan hoped they didn't have to use it. He fingered the pocket torch he had gotten from the lander, wondering if such a simple item would be useful, but he wanted something that would suggest power that didn't involve hurting or killing anyone else.

The remaining sixteen marines-all wearing sidearms- were deployed in two groups, each group with a clear field of fire. Kyseen, her face white, and her leg still in a heavy splint, sat on a boulder at one end of the rocks with the easternmost group.

The traders, dressed in half-open quilted jackets and cloaks, had halted downhill from the trading banner.

Ryba glanced around the group, all in thin uniforms or shipsuits, some still sweating from their haste. "Before we start... the one thing we don't trade is any of our weapons- or the new blades Nylan has forged."

"Those blades ... they are worth golds ... many golds," suggested Narliat.

"They'll cost us far more than that if the locals get their hands on them. We can trade any of the captured blades, but that's it."

"How much are those armsmen's blades worth?" Nylan asked Narliat.

"Whatever Skiodra will pay." Nylan gave the smaller man a sharp look. Narliat stepped back a pace, then stammered. "That is true, but the worst of them would have cost Lord Nessil nearly a gold."

"Good. That should help."

"Let's go. We'll leave our pile of trading goods here." Ryba fingered the leather pouch at her waist that contained almost all their local coins.

The six walked slowly down to the banner. "Where do we stop?" Ayrlyn hissed to Narliat. Her eyes flashed blue.

"A dozen paces this side."

As the six angels stopped, eight of the traders stepped forward, leaving perhaps a dozen men with the horses and the four carts.

The traders stopped on the far side of the banner. For a moment, the only sound was that of the wind, and the faintest dink of harness chains from the traders' cart horses below. After another moment, the biggest trader, wearing a huge blade like the one Gerlich bore, and a breastplate, stepped forward another two paces. "I am Skiodra," he declaimed in Old Anglorat with an unknown accent so thick that Nylan could barely follow the simple declaration. "You wish to trade?" Skiodra inclined his head to Gerlich, the biggest man in the angel group.

Before Gerlich could speak, Nylan stepped forward and smiled politely at the bandit-trader. "Yes." Then he gestured to Ryba. "This is Ryba . . ." He groped for the Old Anglo-rat word, and added, "Our marshal... leader."

Skiodra squinted slightly. One of the traders behind Skiodra, with a bushy blond beard, grinned broadly.

"And you do not let anyone else do the speaking, O Mage?"

Mage? Nylan certainly hadn't thought of himself as a mage, especially with a blade in an ill-fitting scabbard strapped around his waist.

"Pardon ..." Narliat cleared his throat and looked at Ayrlyn and then Nylan.

Nylan nodded.

Skiodra's eyes flicked to the splint on Narliat's leg and to the ruined hand. The blond man behind him continued to grin.

"Honored Skiodra," began the armsman from Lornth, "best you and your men tread lightly with your laughter. Lord Nessil did not, and he lies under a pile of rocks above the cliff. Even his wizard could not save him. The ... marshal"-he struggled with the unfamiliar word-"hurled one of those angel blades through his breastplate. Never in my years as an armsman, never have I seen anything more terrible."