Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(84)

"Ser!" Kyseen stood and tossed a bunched rag toward Nylan, which opened and dropped onto Hryessa's bread and stew.

Hryessa's mouth opened.

"These things happen," said Ayrlyn calmly, as she reclaimed the rag and spread it on the tea puddle.

Hryessa looked at her stew and bread, then at Ayrlyn.

Saryn grinned, shaking her head. "It doesn't look like it's been your morning, Engineer."

Nylan reached forward and gathered the tea- and stew-soaked rag, carefully wringing the liquid into the inside corner of the hearth where the heat would evaporate it. Then he mopped up more of the tea and repeated the process.

In time he sat back down, glad at least that the split mug hadn't poured bark tea over his bread and stew.

"Here's another mug, ser." Rienadre set one in front of him and retreated. "Some of them don't fire right. I'm sorry."

"Would you pour the tea?" Nylan asked. "I haven't had much luck." Rienadre took the kettle and poured. The mug held.

"Thank you." Nylan took a small sip, marveling that the tea wasn't bad. That alone told him how bedraggled he felt. He took a mouthful of bread and stew, then another, trying to ignore the bitterness of the tubers and onions. From the corner of his eye as he set down his mug, Nylan could see Gerlich bending toward Narliat.

"Finishing the bathhouse with hand tools is going to take time-and dryer weather," the engineer added.

"Cannot a mage do anything?" asked Narliat. "You have builded a tower that reaches to the skies, and you cannot make a few channels in stone?"

Put that way... Nylan frowned. "Perhaps I can, after all." The real question was the timing of Narliat's question. Was Gerlich thinking up the nasty questions for the armsman, or was Narliat that disruptive on his own?

"You are a great mage, and great mages do great things," Narliat added.

Nylan wanted to strangle him for the setup. Instead, he turned to the armsman. "I have never claimed to be a great mage. But I have done my best to accomplish what needed to be done, and I will continue to do so." His eyes locked on Narliat until the other looked away.

Then he took another chunk of bread and ate more of the stew, trying to ignore the gamy taste Kyseen had not been able to mask with salt and strong onions.





XLII



AS HE WAITED for Ryba, Nylan stood in the darkness at the unshuttered, unglazed window and looked at Freyja, the knife edges of the needle-peak softened but slightly by the starlight and by the snow.

His stomach growled, reminding him that the spiced bear stew-that was what Kyseen had called it-had not fully agreed with his system. Would it be that way all winter, although he could scarcely call it winter, since only a few dustings of snow had fallen around the tower? Not all of the scrub bushes and deciduous trees had shed their gray leaves, although it was clear most kept about half, shriveled against the winter.

Meals were enough, so far, to keep body together, but not much more, and it wasn't that cold yet.

Nylan leaned forward and looked to the north side of the tower and the half-roofed bathhouse. Almost instinctively, he curled his hands, and his fingertips rested on the callused spots at the base of his fingers. He had far too much to finish, far too much, and, as time passed, fewer and fewer cared, except for the few like Ryba, Ayrlyn, and Huldran, and the guards with children.

He turned toward the stairs as he heard Ryba's steps-heavier now-approaching.

"Dyliess hasn't been kind to my bladder," said the marshal.

"I'm sorry about the tower design," apologized Nylan. "I just wasn't thinking about waste disposal."

In a rough-sewn nightshirt of grayish beaten linen, Ryba sat down heavily on her side of the twin couches. "Narliat and Relyn think this tower is luxury, the sort of place for lords and dukes or whatever. Neither wants to leave. They'll have to, by spring at the latest."

"If they have to leave, why are you letting them stay?"

"I don't want the locals to find out much about us until we've got things in better order. So far, the only people who have left have been those who have fled our weapons, mostly in terror, and traders who have never seen things closely. I'd like to keep it that way for a while longer. And we can learn a few things more from Narliat and Relyn." Ryba shrugged. "Relyn might end up fathering a child or two, and he seems bright enough."

The engineer pulled at his chin, "You're pregnant, and so are Siret and Ellysia. Isn't that a lot for the numbers we've got?"

"Three or four out of sixteen-not counting Hryessa- that's only about a third, and most will be able to fight by late spring. Most children will be born in winter or early spring in Westwind, anyway."

The calm certainty in Ryba's voice chilled Nylan more than the wind at his back, but he asked, "Four?"

"I think Istril is, also," said Ryba.

"Istril? She doesn't strike me as the type to play around."

"I could be wrong," Ryba said. "I'm not always certain about these things, but she will be sooner or later."

"But who?"

"I can't pry-or see-into everything, Nylan. Right now, I'm just fortunate enough to be gifted, or cursed, with glimpses of what might be. That's bad enough. More than enough."