Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(36)

While he could feel that the clay was right, he decided to wait a while longer for the other pieces. He had the feeling that, so far as the clay and brick works were concerned, he-or someone-was going to be doing a lot of experimenting, and a lot of waiting.





XX



"I SEE YOU still intend to let those women flaunt their defiance at you from the Roof of the World." The lady Ellindyja holds the needlework loosely.

"When did you take up needlework?" asks Sillek.

"When I found myself no longer useful to the Lord of Lornth, I took up the diversions of my youth." Ellindyja eases the outer wooden hoop off, readjusts the cloth over the inner hoop, and replaces the outer hoop. Then she picks up the needle.

"We haven't replaced the armsmen we lost."

"Nor your father's ring. Nor his honor." Ellindyja's voice is acid-edged.

"The present Lord of Lornth would appreciate any suggestions you might have, my dear mother, which do not either bankrupt me or leave our lands open to Lord Ildyrom."

"I have been thinking, Sillek-about heritages and honor."

Lord Sillek purses his lips, then asks, "What of something besides an attack we cannot afford."

"Well ... if one must resort to more indirect and more merchantlike means, Sillek, my son, surely there must be some ... adventurers... out there who might want a reward of sorts, perhaps some small parcel of almost worthless land, and a title... even a pardon... if necessary." Ellindyja smiles brightly.

"Hmmmm . . ." Sillek paces to the tower window and back. His fingers touch his trimmed beard. "Not nearly so expensive as troops. It might even reduce the banditry-one way or another."

"I am more than happy to be of service, Sillek-as I was for your father. He was a most honorable man."

"I don't think we'll make the offer through a broadsheet, though."

"No . . . that would be too overtly merchantly. Tell your wizards and your senior armsmen, and make sure that the traders' guild knows. That is the way the better merchants operate."

"I do so appreciate your advice." Sillek paces back to the window, glancing out into the slashing rain that has poured off the Westhorns. "Your advice is always welcome." He only emphasizes the word "advice" ever so slightly.

"I am so glad you do."

Sillek does not turn from the window, not until he forces a smile back upon his lips.





XXI



NYLAN SPLASHED HIS face again, trying to wash away the stone dust, then took a long swallow of the cold stream water. The water carried away some of the acridness and dustiness that seeped endlessly into his nostrils and dried his throat. After another swallow, he walked back toward the tower. In the foot-packed clay area beyond the rough stacked stones and the space where Cessya and Huldran alternated splitting the slates for roofing tiles, Istril and Ryba were working at blade practice, using the wooden wands that were far safer for beginners.

Nylan shivered. His turn would be coming up. He set down his cup on the nearest pile of black stone and watched as Saryn and Ryba began to spar. Despite the partial splint that remained on Saryn's leg, their wands flickered, faster, and then even faster, until Nylan's own heart and lungs seemed to be racing. Even Istril and Siret had stopped, both silver-haired marines following the action. As Saryn limped backward and lowered her wand, the engineer finally caught his breath.

"Ah, yes," came a voice from the sunny side of a pile of cut stones meant for the sixth level of the tower.

Nylan leaned over to see Narliat drinking in the reflected heat from the stone. "Yes?"

"The she-angels, those two, and I see why Lord Nessil is dead."

"You liked Lord Nessil?" Nylan tried to keep his voice neutral.

"He was more honest than most, but he was terrible when he was angered, and he was angered a lot. That is not what I meant, Mage. I am a man, too, and I was an armsman." Narliat shrugged. "I would not lift a sword against your she-angels. They would kill me in three strokes, even the one who is crippled, and I have killed a few men. They were poor farmers, but they were strong, and I did not want to die." Narliat looked back to the practice space where Ryba had followed Saryn's lead and set aside her weapon. "I see the she-angels, and I see the whole world change."

Nylan could feel the sweat oozing from his forehead as he stood in the sun. He looked down at the local, wearing a jacket and huddled against the black stone, almost for warmth. "You're cold?"

"Not if I stay here." Narliat smiled. "You will make your tower warm, will you not?"

Nylan looked toward the stones, looking more like dark gray in the sunlight than the black they had seemed when Nylan had cut them from the mountain. "Not that warm-"

"A tower-on the Roof of the World. Only the angels would dare-"

"Nylan! Since you're not cutting or setting stone, let's get your practice done now." Ryba motioned.

Narliat grinned as the engineer trudged toward the practice area.

"Here you go." Ryba handed Nylan one of the hand-carved wands. "It's not balanced the way I'd like-"

"I know. We've been through this before." Nylan lifted the wand. The last few times he'd actually managed to keep Ryba from tapping him at will, but he had no illusions about his ability to hold off a master swordsman or armsman or whatever they were called.