L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Thank you. I wish I could use one the way you and Ryba do.”

“Practice. Never thought I’d have a real use for it.” She laughed softly and leaned forward in the saddle. “There! Look up on the hill.”

Nylan looked. A tawny catlike creature vanished behind a bushy pine.

“Those are the big cats. They don’t like us much. I think there are something like bears, too, but I’ve only seen tracks.”

Nylan glanced up at the nearly sheer rock wall that began on the far side of the stream. “Hard to believe we’re up there.” He looked back toward the thick trunks of the evergreens where the big cat had vanished. Would it have beenbetter to bring everything down the ridge?

“It’s less than a kay ahead, in and out, just above where the other little stream joins,” explained Istril.

The two streams joined below a reddish-brown mound that held some bushes Nylan didn’t recognize, and only clumps of grass. Just above where the two streams joined, a narrow log, a fallen fir limb, lay half in and half out of the water. A brownish green frog smaller than Nylan’s fist squatted on the water-peeled limb, then plopped into the stream and vanished.

After dismounting and tying the horse to an evergreen branch, he jumped across the stream, nearly plunging back into it when his worn shipboots skidded on the slippery ground. He grabbed a bush and steadied himself, then bent down and scooped up some of the clay, almost as plastic as dough. The consistency seemed right, but how could he tell?

“Can we start a small fire here?”

“I can probably find some sticks.” Istril brushed a lock of silver hair back over her ear and dismounted.

While the marine gathered brush and some small branches, Nylan experimented with the protoclay. It looked right, felt right, but would it fire right? He rolled out several small balls with his hands, then some flat sections, and one small crude potlike shape, then another.

His striker, when he had finally used Istril’s knife to scrape some thin dry shavings, worked in getting the fire started. They added drier branches and waited until there was a small bed of coals, on which Nylan, after wetting his hands in the chill water, placed his test items.

Then he washed the reddish clay off his hands in the water that chilled all the way up his arms. While the clay balls and flat sections baked on the coals, coals that occasionally hissed in the few drops of water falling from the gray sky or nearby trees, Nylan slowly trudged up the narrow gorge, looking up to his right as he went. Up there, somewhere, was the plateau where the landers rested.

Istril trudged beside him, looking more to the sides as she did. “Doesn’t look like many people have been here.”

“Probably not. You saw how cold those traders looked-and we were sweating.” Nylan stopped and looked up the cliff. If they had rope … perhaps they could get some rope the next time-if there were a next time … if the traders had rope. He studied the cliff. The vertical was still more than four hundred cubits, and probably treacherous at the top. Plus … the fired clay wouldn’t be that strong and that meant any sustained banging against the rocks would probably crack it unless it were heavily padded-and that meant even more rope and equipment.

If he built the firing hearth up the branch of the creek, which would be dry most of the time-He pulled at his chin. Either the clay went up on horses, or the finished bricks and pipe did.

There was enough wood nearby. He hoped the two-person saw they had bought from Skiodra would help in cutting wood for the firing. Or would it be needed for planks and timbers? Could they use one of the smaller saws on the deadwood to get firewood? Why did he think things would be simple?

Finally, he turned and started back down to the coals.

“Be a long trip to bring things up,” observed Istril.

“Very long. But there’s a lot of wood here, and not nearly so much up there.”

“That makes sense, ser.”

Nylan hoped so.

He used a stick to ease one of the balls out of the coals. While the ball had cracked in two, the half coated with ash seemed hard enough. The other side was still damp in parts.

While he could feel that the clay was right, he decided to wait a while longer for the other pieces. He had the feeling that, so far as the clay and brick works were concerned, he-or someone-was going to be doing a lot of experimenting, and a lot of waiting.

“I SEE YOU still intend to let those women flaunt their defiance at you from the Roof of the World.” The lady Ellindyja holds the needlework loosely.

“When did you take up needlework?” asks Sillek.

“When I found myself no longer useful to the Lord of Lornth, I took up the diversions of my youth.” Ellindyja eases the outer wooden hoop off, readjusts the cloth over the inner hoop, and replaces the outer hoop. Then she picks up the needle.

“We haven’t replaced the armsmen we lost.”

“Nor your father’s ring. Nor his honor.” Ellindyja’s voice is acid-edged.

“The present Lord of Lornth would appreciate any suggestions you might have, my dear mother, which do not either bankrupt me or leave our lands open to Lord Ildyrom.”

“I have been thinking, Sillek-about heritages and honor.”

Lord Sillek purses his lips, then asks, “What of something besides an attack we cannot afford.”

“Well … if one must resort to more indirect and more merchantlike means, Sillek, my son, surely there must be some … adventurers … out there who might want a reward of sorts, perhaps some small parcel of almost worthless land, and a title … even a pardon … if necessary.” Ellindyja smiles brightly.

“Hmmmm …” Sillek paces to the tower window and back. His fingers touch his trimmed beard. “Not nearly so expensive as troops. It might even reduce the banditry-one way or another.”

“I am more than happy to be of service, Sillek-as I was for your father. He was a most honorable man.”

“I don’t think we’ll make the offer through a broadsheet, though.”

“No … that would be too overtly merchantly. Tell your wizards and your senior armsmen, and make sure that the traders’ guild knows. That is the way the better merchants operate.”

“I do so appreciate your advice.” Sillek paces back to the window, glancing out into the slashing rain that has poured off the Westhorns. “Your advice is always welcome.” He only emphasizes the word “advice” ever so slightly.

“I am so glad you do.”

Sillek does not turn from the window, not until he forces a smile back upon his lips.

NYLAN SPLASHED HIS face again, trying to wash away the stone dust, then took a long swallow of the cold stream water. The water carried away some of the acridness and dustiness that seeped endlessly into his nostrils and dried his throat. After another swallow, he walked back toward the tower. In the foot-packed clay area beyond the rough stacked stones and the space where Cessya and Huldran alternated splitting the slates for roofing tiles, Istril and Ryba were working at blade practice, using the wooden wands that were far safer for beginners.

Nylan shivered. His turn would be coming up. He set down his cup on the nearest pile of black stone and watched as Saryn and Ryba began to spar. Despite the partial splint that remained on Saryn’s leg, their wands flickered, faster, and then even faster, until Nylan’s own heart and lungs seemed to be racing. Even Istril and Siret had stopped, both silver-haired marines following the action. As Saryn limpedbackward and lowered her wand, the engineer finally caught his breath.

“Ah, yes,” came a voice from the sunny side of a pile of cut stones meant for the sixth level of the tower.