“This sort of thing isn’t good for a trader,” Nylan remarked conversationally. “People might get the wrong idea. We might think that you really wanted to rob us.” He squinted, trying to fight off the pain.
“I did not know…” Skiodra looked toward the dozen armed men with bared blades who edged their mounts toward the mounted guards of Westwind.
“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.”
“You don’t sound happy. Is that another vision?”
“Not exactly. But the pieces I’ve already seen make more sense.” Ryba shifted her weight in the saddle and turned to face Nylan. “Look how many bandits there are. Trading has to be dangerous. Westwind will patrol the roads across this section of the mountains-what are they called?”
“The Westhorns.”
“And we’ll charge for it. I think the sheep will make it.”
“But that’s trading lives for coin…” said Nylan. “More or less.”
“Yes, it is. So is everything in a primitive culture. Have you a better answer? Can we grow enough up here to support even the few we have left? And if we could, could we keep it without fighting?”
“No,” admitted Nylan.
“If they want to die by the sword, we’ll live by having sharper and faster blades. Thanks to you, smith of the angels.” Ryba did not look at Nylan as she rode past the sentry point where Berlis and Siret, and their rifles, had surveyed the trading.
Nylan could feel Siret’s green eyes on him, and he nodded and smiled to the pregnant marine briefly.
“Smith of the angels?”
“For better or worse, that’s your legacy, Nylan.” Ryba kept riding, crossing the ridge crest and turning the roan toward the canyon that served as a corral until the stables could be completed.
“And yours? Or do I want to know?”
“Ryba, of the swift ships of Heaven. Ryba, one of the founders of Westwind and the Legend. Blessed and cursed throughout the history to come, I suspect. Don’t ask more, Nylan.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t tell. Not even you. Not Dyliess, when her time comes. It hurts too much.”
“You can tell me.”
“No. If I tell, then you-nobody-will act the same, and we might not survive. I can’t risk that, not with all the prices everyone’s already paid. And will. And will keep paying.” She kept riding.
Nylan looked toward the tower, and then at Ryba’s dark hair and the dark hilts of her blades. Ryba of the swift ships of Heaven. Ryba, the founder of the guards of Westwind and the Legend. He swallowed, but he urged the gray to keep pace with the roan.
XXXVI
THE STOCKY MAN whose black hair is streaked wi
th gray escorts Lord Sillek into the room at the north end of the courtyard, carefully closing the door behind him.
Two heavy wooden doors stand open to the veranda and the shaded fountain that splashes loudly just beyond them.
Sillek glances around the room, his eyes taking in the inlaid cherry desk, the two bookcases filled with manuscripts bound in hand-tooled leather, and the two cushioned captain’s chairs that are drawn up opposite a small table. The chairs face the fountain, and the north wind, further cooled by the fountain, blows into the study.
“My sanctuary, if you will,” says the gray-haired man.
“Quite well appointed, Ser Gethen,” responds Sillek, “and certainly private enough-although…” He gestures toward the open doors and the fountain.
“It is more discreet than one would suspect.” Gethen laughs. “It took some doing before the sculptor understood that I wanted a noisy fountain.”
“Oh…” Sillek smiles, almost embarrassed.
“Please, Lord Sillek, do be seated.” Gethen slips into the chair on the left with an understated athletic grace.
“Thank you.” Sillek sits almost as gracefully.
“My lady Erenthla has expressed a concern that you might have come to the Groves as a result of her hasty note to the lady Ellindyja. She wrote that missive while she was in some distress.” Gethen clears his throat.
“I must admit that the receipt of the letter, certainly not its contents, did remind me that I had been remiss in paying my respects. My arrival represents a long-overdue visit to someone who has always been of great support and good advice to the house of Lornth.” Sillek inclines his head ever so slightly.
Thrap. The knock is almost unheard over the gentle plashing of the fountain, but Gethen immediately rises, crosses the handwoven, patterned carpet, and opens the door.
“Thank you, my dear.” The master of the Groves stands aside as a young blond woman carries a tray into the study. On the elaborately carved tray are two cups, a covered pot with a spout, and a flat dish divided into two compartments. The left contains carna nuts, the right small honeyed rolls.
Sillek stands, his eyes going from the confectioneries to the bearer, whose shoulder-length blond hair is kept off her face with a silver and black headband. Her eyes are deep green, her skin the palest of golds, her nose straight and even, and just strong enough not to balance the elfin chin and high cheekbones.
“This is my middle daughter, Zeldyan. Zeldyan, this is Lord Sillek.”
Zeldyan sets the tray on the low table, then rises and offers a deep, kneeling bow to Sillek, a bow that drops the loose neckline of her low-cut tunic enough to reveal that her body is as well proportioned as her face. “Your Grace, I am at your service.” Her voice bears the hint of husky bells.
“And I, at yours,” Sillek responds, as he tries not to swallow too hard.
“We will see you at supper, Zeldyan.” Gethen smiles indulgently.
She bows to them both, then steps back without turning, easing her way from the study and closing the door behind her. Gethen slides the bolt into place.
“A lovely young woman, and with great bearing and grace,” Sillek observes. “You must be proud of her.” His fingers touch his beard briefly.
“My daughters are a great comfort,” Gethen answers as he reseats himself, “a great comfort. And so is my only son, Fornal. You will meet him at supper as well.”
“I never heard but good of all your offspring, ser.” Sillek has caught the slight emphasis on the word “only,” but still places his own marginal accent on the word “all.”
“Your courtesy and concern speak well of you, Lord Sillek.” Gethen leans forward and pours the hot cider into the cups. “Your father was not just Lord of Lornth, but a friend and a compatriot.” He turns the tray and gestures to the cups, letting Sillek choose.
Sillek takes the cup closest to him and lifts it, chest-high, before answering. “A compatriot of my sire is certainly someone to heed, and to pay great respect to.” Then he sips the cider and replaces the cup on the tray.
Gethen takes his cup. “The son of a lord and a friend is also a lord and a friend.” He sips and sets the cup beside Sillek*.
Sillek glances toward the fountain, then back to Gethen. “You offered my sire your best judgment.”
“And I would offer you the same.”
“You have heard of the… difficulties I have faced recently, between certain events on the Roof of the World and Lord Ildyrom’s… adventures near Clynya?”
“I have heard that certain newcomers are said to be evil angels, and that they have great weapons and a black mage with powers not seen since the time of the descent of the demons.”
“We do not know nearly enough,” Sillek admits, “but what I do know is that these so-called angels killed nearly threescore trained armsmen and lost but three of their number. They have also destroyed several bands of brigands who thought them easy prey. Unfortunately, they have also caused others pain, others who may have judged-”
“It often is not our judgment that matters, Lord Sillek, but the perceptions of others,” interrupts Gethen. “When the perception of the people is that women are weak, those who fall to women are deemed even weaker and unfit to lead.” The master of the Groves shrugs, sadly. “And those who lead, especially rulers, must follow those perceptions unless they wish to fight all those who now support them.”
“That is a harsh judgment.”
“Harsh, yes, but true, and that is why I, who loved all my children, have but one son, for I cannot endanger the others by flaunting dearly held beliefs.” Gethen clears his throat.
Sillek waits without speaking.
“I understand you were successful in reclaiming the grasslands with a rather minimal loss of trained armsmen.” Gethen laughs. “Rather ingenious, I think.”
“I was fortunate,” Sillek says, “but it ties up my chief armsman and one of my strongest wizards in Clynya.”
“Hmmmm. I see your problem. If you attempt to secure the river, or Rulyarth… or send another expedition to the Roof of the World…”
Sillek nods.
“Perhaps you should take the battle to Ildyrom. It appears unlikely that the newcomers on the Roof of the World would move against anyone in the near future. Nor will the Suthyan traders.”
“I had thought that, Ser Gethen. Still, Ildyrom can muster twice the armsmen I can. The other option would be to enlist support for a campaign to take Rulyarth, enough support to wage such an effort without removing forces from Clynya.”
Gethen purses his lips, then tugs at his chin. “That might work, provided those who supported you were convinced that you would continue to work in their best interests. With the access to the Northern Ocean, and the trade revenues, Lornth could support a larger force of armsmen…”
“I had thought that, ser, but wished to consider your thoughts upon the matter.”
“Hmmm… that does bear consideration.” Gethen tugs at his chin again, then reaches for his cider and sips. “You would need to make a solid, a very solid, commitment.”
“That is something that I would be willing to do, ser, especially for the good of Lornth.”
“The good of Lornth, ha! You sound like your father. Beware, Sillek, of phrases like that. When a ruler talks of the good of his land, he means his own good.”
“The two are not opposites, ser.”
“True. And sometimes they are the same. Tell me, what do you think of Zeldyan?”
“At first blush, she is attractive and courtly. I would know her better.”
“Should you wish for the good of Lornth, Sillek, I’d bet you will know her much better.”
“That is quite undoubtedly true.” Sillek forces a smile. “For you offer good advice.”
“How good it is-you shall see, but I offer you all the experience that I have, purchased dearly through my mistakes.” The gray-haired man rises. “I believe the time for supper nears, and Fornal and Zeldyan would like to share in yo
ur company.”
“And I in theirs, and yours, and your lady’s.” Sillek stands and follows Gethen into the twilight of the courtyard.
XXXVII
THE WEST WIND, as usual, was chill, chill enough that most of those working on the Roof of the World had covered their arms, although only Narliat, stacking grasses on the drying rack, actually wore a jacket in the sunny afternoon of early fall.
In the colder shadow of the tower on the north side, as Huldran, Cessya, and Selitra worked to complete the stonework on the east and south sides of the bathhouse, Nylan tried to complete the bow he had failed three times with squinting through the goggles, coaxing power out of the cells and through the powerhead. The line of light and power flared almost green, and Nylan channeled the reduced power around the curved form he held in the crude tongs, smoothing the metal around the composite core, trying to shunt the energy evenly around the composite without burning the iron-based alloy.
With a last limited power bath, Nylan flicked off the laser and slipped the protobow into the quench-but only for a moment-before laying it out on the dented chunk of stone too flawed to use for building.
In the end, the shape differed clearly, if subtly, from the sketch that Saryn had provided so many days earlier. Still, a wide smile crossed his face. The bow had been harder, much harder, than the blades.
After a drink from the fired-clay mug, he picked up the second crude bow frame, already roughed out, and began inserting the composite core.
But just before noon, he had created three bows and dropped the energy levels to where he needed to replace two of the ten cells before continuing.
He also needed a rest, and something to eat.
After disassembling the laser and storing the wand and powerhead, the engineer walked around the tower toward the causeway and the main south gate to the tower.
The south tower yard, below the causeway, was getting more use, now that the tower was occupied, and the landers had been moved again and set up more for storage, either to the west of the tower or at the mouth of the canyon used for corraling the horses and for stone. A low rough-stone wall was rising around the yard, built by the simple expedient of asking the marines to carry small stones and put them along the lines Nylan had scratched out. There were enough stones around the tower, and the knee-height wall made a clear demarcation between meadow and the tower yard.
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