L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Fornal squinted, as though he wanted to shut out the conversation and concentrate on the scroll. His frown became more pronounced as his eyes traveled down the scribed lines.

“Lygon of Bleyans? I hope you made him pay triple.”

“Only double,” Gethen said. “Lady Ellindyja found him useful.”

“I know.”

“The lord of Cyador…how…to suggest that the copper mines of south Cerlyn have always belonged to Cyador…to ask for tribute and immediate return…” stuttered Fornal, letting the scroll roll up with a snap. “This is an insult!”

“Yes,” agreed Zeldyan. “It is. Yet they gave up the mines, ages back.”

“That was when they found the copper in Delapra. It was closer to the surface,” said Gethen, “and closer to Cyad, much closer.”

“They use the white bronze the way we do iron.”

“They have to,” pointed out the older man. “Iron and chaos do not mix.”

“Mix or not, it remains an insult,” snapped Fornal.

“Aaaahhhh…” added Nesslek, lunging for the goblet. Zeldyan restrained him just short of the crystal.

“To our way of thinking, it is an insult,” commented Gethen, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “We must remember that Cyador is an old land. The legends say that it dates to the time of the true white demons, that they tamed the ancient forest and molded the paths of the rivers. Then, Lornth did not exist, and the copper mines may well have been part of Cyador.”

“Not in generations,” said Fornal. “I cannot claim Middlevale because Mother’s grandsire lived there.”

“No,” admitted Gethen. “I was but noting how they think.”

“It remains an insult.” Fornal turned to his sister. “What would you do about it?”

“Since we’re in no position to fight, I suggest we send back a message which notes that the scroll could have been interpreted as insulting by some, but that we trust our reading somehow did not find the courtesy for which the lord of Cyador is so justly known-”

“He’s a butcher. We know that already.” Fornal lifted his goblet and downed the half remaining in a single gulp. “Why would flattery help?”

“Fornal,” said Gethen, drawing out his words, “if you insist on treating good wine like inn swill, I will bring you a pitcher of the Crab’s finest, and save this for those who appreciate it.” The gray-haired man smiled.

“I am sorry. It is good wine, but…I cannot believe…” Fornal turned to his sister. “You were about to say?”

“If we flatter him, Fornal, while we make ready, what harm can we do?” asked Gethen.

“None, I suppose, so long as we do make ready.”

“Is it wise to fight?” asked Zeldyan.

“No,” conceded the older man. “But it is more foolish not to. If we fight, and fight well, then the lord of Cyador will only take what he needs. If we surrender the mines, he will take them and ask for more, and then we will have to fight anyway.”

Zeldyan nodded, shifting Nesslek from one knee to the other. “Most respect only force. Cold iron, if you will.”

“Can you think of anything that deserves more respect?” asked Fornal, pouring more wine. “Cold iron is the shield of honor.”

Zeldyan smoothed away a frown. “After I put Nesslek down, I will draft a response and then read it to you both.”

“You always did have the better hand, sister. For writing.” Fornal raised his goblet.

Gethen turned his head to the window and the setting sun.

In the deep twilight after the evening meal, Nylan sat in the chair by the north window in his room, rocking Dyliess, singing softly.

“…hush little girl, and don’t you sigh ,

Daddy’s forging toys by and by ,

and if those toys should fail to please ,

Daddy’s going to sing and put you at ease…”

“Toys?” asked Ryba from the door to his quarters. “You have time to forge toys?”

“Not at the moment, but I can sing about them.” He shifted Dyliess on his shoulder and kept rocking, patting her back. She lifted her head, seeking her mother.

As Dyliess looked at her mother, Ryba’s voice softened, and she smiled. “Hello, there, silvertop.” After a moment, she added, “She is beautiful.”

“She is,” Nylan admitted.

“I came to get her for bed, but I wanted to talk to you for a moment. It’s been half a year, and you really never did deal with the questions I had.”

“That’s possible,” the smith said. “I try to avoid those kinds of questions.” He kept rocking slowly, and Dyliess put her head down on his shoulder again.

“We’ve only got four children, a couple on the way, and we don’t know how our genes mix with the locals-or if they will.”

“They will,” the smith affirmed. “I can feel how things mesh. This world is H-norm, or planoformed thoroughly to be that way. Things will work out.”

“We don’t have time just to let them work out.”

“Oh…what did you have in mind?” Nylan wanted to take back the words even as they slipped out.

“Ydrall likes you,” Ryba said. “And we do need to find out how the genes mix. Feeling it isn’t enough.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You were interested enough in Istril that night an eight-day or so ago.”

Nylan contained a wince. “That was a moment of weakness. I’m not the Gerlich type.”

“When it comes to women who take their fancy, all men are Gerlich types. There just aren’t as many who appeal to you. I thought Ydrall might be your type.” Ryba shrugged. “Find someone else, but find them.”

“What do I tell Ayrlyn?” Nylan asked. Why was she so diffident, so uncaring? Had she always been that way, or was it another push? Another shove to tell him to leave?

“Whatever you want. You’re good with words when you choose to be. I really don’t care. You’re the only stud around here, except for Daryn, and that’s a match between locals.”

“You could certainly entice him.” Nylan wanted to wince as the words burst out. She’s trying to provoke you. Don’t drop to her level .

“Be serious. Only Nylan the mighty smith can stand up to the Angel of Westwind.” Ryba laughed harshly.

“That wasn’t fair,” he admitted. Dyliess shivered, and Nylan patted her back again. Then she hiccupped and raised her head again.

“You actually considered whether it was fair. I’m amazed.”

Dyliess hiccupped again.

“Take it easy.” Nylan slipped to his feet and began to walk around the room, patting his daughter’s back and humming. “I try,” he answered Ryba.

“Sometimes.” The Marshal’s eyes turned to her daughter. “Is she hungry?”

“I don’t think so,” Nylan answered softly. “Just sleepy, and a little gassy.” He kept walking, for a time, then slipped past Ryba and across to her quarters, where he slipped Dyliess into her small bed in the inside corner away from the drafts.

Ryba waited until he returned, then said, “We need more children-or we will.”

“That takes men-or technology-or both, and I don’t see much of either around here. You didn’t have to chase Relyn off, you know?” Nylan walked toward the window, but stopped by the former lander couch that was his bed.

“I didn’t. You warned him off, and he was local anyway.”

The smith took a long, slow breath. He didn’t want to get into a discussion of Relyn. It wouldn’t do any good, not when Ryba would start pointing out that Relyn’s religious view of the world’s order fields would eventually hurt Westwind. What did she mean by eventually, anyway? Five hundred years later?

“What do you want?” he finally asked.

“I told you. Find a local to bed. Or another guard.”