Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(67)

"Let us just say that you did not," said Ryba. "You might tell your men to sheathe their blades. Could any of them have stopped the mage?"

"No." Skiodra looked toward his men. "The angels mean well, I think, and it might be best if you put your blades away."

About half did.

"Who wants a blade right through his chest?" asked Ryba with a smile.

A single man charged, and Ryba's left hand flickered. The dark-bearded man slumped across the horse's mane with the throwing blade through his chest, and his mount reared. The body slid into the dust.

The dozen mounted angels eased forward, each bearing an unsheathed and dark blade Nylan had forged.

Skiodra looked at the grim faces of the women, and the blades. The other five men sheathed their blades slowly, though their hands remained on their hilts.

"This really isn't very friendly, Skiodra," said Nylan. "Have you seen that your men all moved first, and they're all dead?"

Skiodra swallowed, eyes glancing at Ryba's blade, back at his neck.

"Doesn't that tell you something?" pursued Nylan. "Now ... do you want to trade for your goods, or do you want us to slaughter you and take them?"

"How do I know-"

"Stuff it!" snapped Ryba. "We would prefer to trade, and you know it. You'd prefer to steal, and we know it."

A pasty cast crossed Skiodra's face.

"So we'll trade, and if you try anything nasty, we'll just kill you," concluded Ryba. "I thought you agreed to nine coppers a barrel for the flour."

"Yes, Marshal of angels."

As Ryba lowered her blade, Skiodra mopped his forehead.

"What else do you have to offer?"

Skiodra forced a grin under his pale and sweating brow. "I might ask the same of you, Mage."

"How about two dozen of the finest blades produced west of the Westhorns, directly, more or less, from a place called Carpa. Of course," Nylan said lightly, "I expect that five of them would pay for everything in your carts with a few golds to spare."

"I slandered your father, Mage. You had to be whelped from a white witch and sired by the patron angel of usurers." Skiodra shrugged. "I cannot blame you for trying to get the best price, but your idea of fairness would have ruined Lestmerk, and he could get blood from stones and water from the sands of the Stone Hills."

"Now that we have that understood," laughed Nylan, doing his best to ignore his continuing headache, "what do you offer from the remaining carts?"

"I will show you, provided you bring down those blades."

"I'd say to bring ten," Nylan suggested to Ryba, "just so that the honorable Skiodra has a choice. And some of the breastplates, maybe."

Skiodra frowned, and Nylan translated roughly. "I suggested that the marshal bring a double handful to allow you a choice."

"Mage . . . you alone must be the patron of usurers."

Nylan shrugged. "Since you are the patron of ambitious traders, I'd say we could work out a fair trade."

Skiodra laughed, but the sweat beaded on his forehead, and Nylan wondered why. Did he seem that formidable?

Cessya turned her mount back up the ridge, presumably to bring down the cart and some of the blades captured from Relyn's forces.

In the end, Ryba and Nylan looked upon nearly thirty barrels of flours-maize, wheat, and barley; five bolts of gray woolen cloth; one bolt of a red and blue plaid; four barrels of dried fruit; two kegs of a cooking oil from something called oilpods; three axes; two saws; and enough other assorted goods to fill a wagon-plus one of Skiodra's carts, the oldest and most rickety. He'd even managed to get a barrel and a small-keg of feed corn that might help the chickens through the winter.

The guards remained mounted until the trader's entourage was well along the road toward Lornth. Then, as half the women began to load the two carts, Nylan mounted and eased the gray up beside Ryba.

"This whole business is a little strange," he observed. "You notice that Skiodra didn't show up until after you made hash of young Relyn's forces. And this Lord Sillek-he's the son of the lord you killed in the first battle-he's offered land and a title for our destruction, enough that this young hothead-Relyn, I mean-was willing to take the chance."

"It's not all that strange," answered Ryba. "Skiodra wanted to see if we'd been hurt, and how badly. If we were weak, then he'd attack. Since he found us strong, he'll sell the information to someone. Lord Sillek, I suppose."

"Something like that," Nylan agreed. His eyes covered the goods that had cost eight blades and some breastplates. "We still have some coins."

. "The flour and fruit will help, but it's going to be a long winter," Ryba said quietly, "even if we can get some more from those traders that Ayrlyn has been working with near ... what is it? ... Clarta, Carpa? The economics are the hard part-in war or peace, I suppose." As the last of Skiodra's riders disappeared beyond the ridge, she turned her mount uphill.

Nylan rode beside her, still bouncing in his saddle, wondering if he would ever learn to ride as smoothly as the others. "Do you think we can make this work economically? Westwind, I mean?"

"I already have," said Ryba slowly, "thanks to Skiodra and young Relyn."