Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(45)

"Take a break, Stentana," he suggested. "It'll be a little bit before I can fire it up again."

"Power, ser?"

"Sort of." He smiled wryly, not wanting to explain that he was the underpowered part of the equipment. He walked up the ramp and into the shade of the second level of the tower, where he sat on the next-to-the-bottom step.

The triangle sounded again, and Nylan heaved himself up off the step and back out into the sunlight.

Three riders guided their mounts down toward the landers, following the trail past the tower yard. On the fourth mount, riderless, a body was slung across the saddle, a body in the black olive drab of a marine.

"Who?" asked Huldran as Istril led the horse past the tower yard.

Nylan looked at the laser and then toward Istril and the dead marine, but the body was facedown.

"Frelita."

Nylan didn't know the marine by name, since he hadn't learned them all, but he'd probably recognize her face-or recognize when she wasn't there at dinner. For a time, the tower crew watched the horses and their riders.

"We can't help them by looking," Nylan finally said.

"I'll be glad when the tower's finished," added Huldran.

Weblya laughed once. "Then we'll have to build a real ramp, and some stables. There's a lot to do."

"How about a bathhouse with showers?" suggested Nylan. "And a place to do laundry?"

"Showers with ice-cold water? No, thank you," answered Stentana.

"He's working on a furnace," said Huldran. "Maybe he can give us a hot-water heater."

Nylan groaned.

Huldran grinned. "I can ask, ser."

"Let's worry about getting a solid roof on the tower first."

"Yes, ser." The blond squared her shoulders.

Nylan finished the last of the roof slates before the sun even touched the western peaks, with enough time-and power left-for him to shape two more of the black blades, although they couldn't be used, not easily, until some of the hides of the big cats killed by Gerlich were tanned-or until they got some kind of leather to wrap the hilts.

After that, Nylan stowed the laser cells back in the space under the tower stairs. Then he trudged to the upper stream and washed up as well as he could before making his way toward the cook fires.

Three repeated rings on the triangle called all but the sentries around the fires.

Ryba stood on one of the lengths of logs, and studied the group, waiting for silence. Her face was grim. "Frelita's dead. It didn't have to happen, but she really wasn't paying attention."

"... poor woman . . ."

"... should have watched closer . .."

"You idiots!" snapped Ryba, her voice cold as a winter gale, cutting off the low murmurs. "Did you think that after one round of bandits, they'd all go away? We can't afford to lose one of you every time some idiot brigand shows up. Do you want to be the next one skewered by one of those arrows? There's no such thing as one band of brigands in a place like this. You kill one bunch, and more show up. And life is so frigging hard here that they don't care much if they die, so long as they have some fun along the way. Fun is food, wine, beer, and women-and they don't care how they get their women."

Saryn fingered the sharp edge of her blade, one of the better ones Nylan had done, and one of the matching pair that the former second pilot wore. "... I do ..."

Her words were as clear as if she had been standing beside Nylan, and he frowned. How had he heard Saryn so clearly?

Ayrlyn, halfway between Nylan and Saryn, shook her head, then glanced at the engineer, raising her eyebrows. He shrugged back, trying not to cough as the smoke from the cook fire twisted toward him.

Perhaps it wouldn't be too long before Rienadre and Denalle had fired enough bricks to start building the big stove and the furnace in the lower level of the tower. Maybe completing the tower would help with some of the security. He pursed his lips. Who was he kidding? Crops had to be tended. Someone had to hunt. Others had to keep watch. The tower would be great against the winter, and at night-but not that much help in the warm days, except as a higher vantage point.

"Women are slaves here-outside of Westwind. And don't you forget it. There are few men off the Roof of the World who wouldn't want to kill you, humble you, rape you-or all three. We're the evil angels to a lot of these people. Now we can change that, and we're going to-but we can't do it if you get yourselves killed." A cast of sadness crossed the captain's face. "I'm sorry about Frelita. I wish it hadn't happened. And I'm still sorry about Desinada. But let's not let it happen again." She stepped down and walked through the marines toward Nylan.

He touched her forearm, and she looked at him, then nodded toward the tower. So they walked back up the gentle slope until the black stones loomed over them.

"It always takes death or force to get people's attention. And one death sometimes doesn't even do it," Ryba began. "I've got to act like some ancient dictator just to get people to follow common sense."

"Not all of us," suggested Nylan.

"Thank the darkness." Ryba sighed. "But they complain about sawing planks, cleaning saw blades, or making bricks. Don't they?"

"Sometimes."