L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“But … to trade with the angels … who would dare?” declaimed Narliat.

Nylan suspected that, had it not been for the stories, there might already have been traders, or some travelers, on the high road that crossed the mountains and ran below the ridge that led up to the high meadow.

“Anyone who wants coins,” suggested Ryba.

Narliat looked blank, and Ayrlyn translated.

The armsman grinned. “Skiodra.”

“Is he a trader?”

“That is what he calls himself, but he is a thief, and his guards carry blades that are often in need of sharpening.”

“Sharpening?” Fierral’s red hair glinted as she shook her head.

“They get nicked when they fight,” said Ryba dryly.

“How do we find this Skiodra?”

“He will find you if you fly the trade banner.”

“We don’t have a pole or a trade banner,” pointed out Ayrlyn.

“Poles we can make,” said Nylan, turning toward Narliat. “What does a trade banner look like?”

“A trade banner.” The armsman shrugged. “It is a white banner with a dark square in the middle.”

“We can put something like that together.”

“With what?” asked Ayrlyn. “I didn’t notice such things as needles or thread in the survival paks.”

“There are some needles in the medical kits-for sutures,” said Ryba.

Nylan frowned, wondering why Ryba was so familiar with the medical kits. That hadn’t been her training at all. Then again, as captain, she’d looked at everything. He’d been mostly involved in solving the shelter problem.

“We’ll also have to make a show of force when this Skiodra shows up.”

Ayrlyn translated for Narliat.

“Skiodra is very polite if you are strong.” The armsman shrugged. “If not, you become slaves, and he sells you to the traders from Hamor. That happened to a cousin of Memsenn’s. She lived on a farm outside of Dellash. One day Skiodra passed by, and when her consort came home, she was gone. He chased Skiodra’s men, and they killed him.”

“Not a pleasant fellow.” Fierral’s fingers went to her sidearm.

“I don’t think any of Candar is what we’d term peaceful,” said Ryba. “The only way to ensure peace is through strength.”

“That was what Lord Nessil said. But … now that he is dead, it may be that the Jeranyi will march, or the Suthyans.” Narliat edged closer to the fire, then looked at the angels around him. “Truly, you are people of the winter. Is Heaven cold?”

“Colder than Candar, even than here,” replied Ayrlyn, “except maybe in winter.”

Across the fire, Gerlich and Selitra stood and eased away into the shadows, hand in hand.

Ryba and Nylan exchanged looks.

Ayrlyn snorted. “Poor woman. Thinks she’s special.”

“I’ve warned them,” added Fierral, “but it does get lonely.”

“I would make you less lonely …” volunteered Narliat.

Fierral shot a look at Narliat, who immediately glanced at the darkness beyond the fire.

“He’s learning Temple fast,” laughed Ayrlyn. “Even if it’s not that different from Anglorat.”

“Too fast,” said Fierral.

“Supper’s ready,” called Saryn. “Such as it is.”

At the call of supper, even Gerlich and Selitra reappeared, no longer quite hand in hand.

Nylan followed the others, getting his helping of mush and chunk of blackened rodent, as well as a few berries and a chunk of wild onion. The roughly circular wooden platter was the result of a collaboration between some of the marines and Narliat.

He sat farther from the fire, on a boulder overlooking the landers, using his fingers and a crudely carved spoon he had made. The slightly charred rodent was tastier than the mush, but he ate both, and washed them down with water from the plastic cup he had claimed and kept.

Beside him, Ryba ate, equally silent.

After he finished, Nylan stood. “I’m going to rinse this off, and rack it, and wash up. Then I’m going to collapse.”

“Wait for me.” Ryba finished her last mouthful of mush. “I won’t be too long. I have to check with Fierral to make sure the sentries are set.”

“All right.” Nylan walked over to the side branch of the stream, diverted for the purpose of washing, and rinsed off the wooden platter, then used the scattering of fine sand to wash his hands. After that he rinsed them and splashed off his face.

“Next,” said a voice.

He looked up to see Ayrlyn standing there. “Sorry.” He stood and moved away from the stream.

She smiled. “You don’t have to be.”

“You’re doing well with Narliat.”

“He figures he’d better do well. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, he likes the ratio of men to women.”

“Has anyone …?”

“Right now, Ryba would have their heads, but that won’t last. She probably knows that, too. She thinks of everything.” Ayrlyn paused. “Just be careful, Nylan. She uses everyone.”

He nodded, hoping the darkness would cover his lack of enthusiasm.

Ayrlyn bent to rinse her platter, and Nylan walked to the lander, passing a pair of marines on the way. One was Huldran, the stocky blond who helped with stone-cutting; the other a solid brunette whose name he had not learned.

“Evening, ser.”

“Good evening, Huldran. Are you on sentry duty?”

“Not tonight. Not tonight.”

Once in the forward area of the lander, Nylan pulled off his boots. Then he sat in the darkness for a time barefooted, before he pulled off the shipsuit that, despite careful washing, was getting both frayed and stained.

When Ryba still did not appear, he finally stretched out, folding the cover back to just above his waist. His shoulders and his forearms ached, and his feet hurt. He also worried about Ryba-their relationship. A lot of the time she was distant, commanding, just like he imagined an antique nomad-liege of Sybra. Of course, that was her heritage, and Candar seemed to reinforce those traits.

In the distance, he could hear laughter, but could not recognize the voices.

As his eyes began to close, he heard footsteps on the hard floor of the lander, and he propped himself up on his elbow.

“I told you I wouldn’t be long.” Slowly, Ryba slipped out of her boots, and then out of the shipsuit, and eased under the thin cover. Her lips were cool, but found his, and her skin was like satin against him.

Later-much, much later-they eased apart, although Ryba’s hand held his for a moment.

“Don’t go away.” Ryba rolled away from Nylan. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Where would I go?”

She ruffled his hair slightly and pulled on her shipsuit over her naked body, thrusting her bare feet into her shipboots-boots that were beginning to wear, as were everyone’s.

Nylan wondered absently if traders had boots, or if footwear would become yet another problem. He leaned back on the couch, letting the cool air from the door waft over him. Sometimes … on the one hand, Ryba was a good leader, captain, whatever, and she was receptive, sometimes aggressive in sex … and yet … he sometimes felt more like an object than a person.

His eyes closed. It had been a long day, as were they all, and he was barely aware when Ryba returned, slipping off her suit and lying beside him under the thin blanket that was almost too hot.

THE SUN HAD barely cleared the trees on the eastern side of the sheer drop-off at the base of the meadow when Nylan laid the endurasteel brace and the crowbarlike local blade beside one of Ryba’s Sybran blades. Beneath the blades was a crude quench trough, half-filled with water and the hydraulic oil for which there was really no other use-not for centuries, probably.

Then the engineer walked around the working space outside the base of the unfinished tower construction. Should he consider a dry moat as well? He shook his head. Half the year or more a moat would be a bug-filled mess, and the other half the high snows would render it useless.