Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(35)

Istril led the way down the ridge line, keeping her mount close to the windswept hard rock near the center. "Be a while, ser, but you don't want to take the short way down there."

"What short way?" Nylan's words came out as he bounced in the unfamiliar saddle, reflecting that any saddle would have been unfamiliar.

The silver-haired marine laughed. "Over the cliff. Where we're headed is really just below the landers. A long way straight down."

"Oh." Nylan readjusted his weight in the saddle.

By the time they reached the bottom of the ridge and crossed the cold narrow stream, Nylan felt the tightness in his legs. The rain had dropped off more to a soft mist, and the clouds above appeared a lighter featureless gray.

"Sometimes we see those scouts in purple, but lately they've pulled back. Don't see any travelers, but Narliat says that we won't until it gets warmer, toward midsummer. People don't cross the Westhorns that much."

"That's what they call these mountains?" asked Nylan. "The Easthorns are the other big range, then."

"Guess so." Istril drew her blade and ran through a set of what looked like blade exercises as the horses paralleled the small stream. When she finished, she wiped the blade on a scrap of something tucked in her belt and sheathed it. "Good blade, ser."

"Thank you. I wish I could use one the way you and Ryba do."

"Practice. Never thought I'd have a real use for it." She laughed softly and leaned forward in the saddle. "There! Look up on the hill."

Nylan looked. A tawny catlike creature vanished behind a bushy pine.

"Those are the big cats. They don't like us much. I think there are something like bears, too, but I've only seen tracks."

'Nylan glanced up at the nearly sheer rock wall that began on the far side of the stream. "Hard to believe we're up there." He looked back toward the thick trunks of the evergreens where the big cat had vanished. Would it have been better to bring everything down the ridge?

"It's less than a kay ahead, in and out, just above where the other little stream joins," explained Istril.

The two streams joined below a reddish-brown mound that held some bushes Nylan didn't recognize, and only clumps of grass. Just above where the two streams joined, a narrow log, a fallen fir limb, lay half in and half out of the water. A brownish green frog smaller than Nylan's fist squatted on the water-peeled limb, then plopped into the stream and vanished.

After dismounting and tying the horse to an evergreen branch, he jumped across the stream, nearly plunging back into it when his worn shipboots skidded on the slippery ground. He grabbed a bush and steadied himself, then bent down and scooped up some of the clay, almost as plastic as dough. The consistency seemed right, but how could he tell? "Can we start a small fire here?"

"I can probably find some sticks." Istril brushed a lock of silver hair back over her ear and dismounted.

While the marine gathered brush and some small branches, Nylan experimented with the protoclay. It looked right, felt right, but would it fire right? He rolled out several small balls with his hands, then some flat sections, and one small crude potlike shape, then another.

His striker, when he had finally used Istril's knife to scrape some-thin dry shavings, worked in getting the fire started. They added drier branches and waited until there was a small bed of coals, on which Nylan, after wetting his hands in the chill water, placed his test items.

Then he washed the reddish clay off his hands in the water that chilled all the way up his arms. While the clay balls and flat sections baked on the coals, coals that occasionally hissed in the few drops of water falling from the gray sky or nearby trees, Nylan slowly trudged up the narrow gorge, looking up to his right as he went. Up there, somewhere, was the plateau where the landers rested.

Istril trudged beside him, looking more to the sides as she did. "Doesn't look like many people have been here."

"Probably not. You saw how cold those traders looked- and we were sweating." Nylan stopped and looked up the cliff. If they had rope ... perhaps they could get some rope the next time-if there were a next time ... if the traders had rope. He studied the cliff. The vertical was still more than four hundred cubits, and probably treacherous at the top. Plus ... the fired clay wouldn't be that strong and that meant any sustained banging against the rocks would probably crack it unless it were heavily padded-and that meant even more rope and equipment.

If he built the firing hearth up the branch of the creek, which would be dry most of the time- He pulled at his chin. Either the clay went up on horses, or the finished bricks and pipe did.

There was enough wood nearby. He hoped the two-person saw they had bought from Skiodra would help in cutting wood for the firing. Or would it be needed for planks and timbers? Could they use one of the smaller saws on the deadwood to get firewood? Why did he think things would be simple?

Finally, he turned and started back down to the coals.

"Be a long trip to bring things up," observed Istril.

"Very long. But there's a lot of wood here, and not nearly so much up there."

"That makes sense, ser."

Nylan hoped so.

He used a stick to ease one of the balls out of the coals. While the ball had cracked in two, the half coated with ash seemed hard enough. The other side was still damp in parts.