L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Oh, yeah … it’s my turn on top. You get to be in the pit.”

“Thanks.”

The sun had dropped behind the western peaks before Nylan mortared in the last stone on the fifth level of the eastern wall. Despite his best resolves, he still had the gaps in the southern wall left to do. Another day before Cessya and Weblya could wedge and mortar the big timbers into place and start on placing the planks. He trudged down, carrying the empty mortar trough.

“We’ll take that, ser,” said Weblya.

“You’re going to finish it even before it starts to chill, aren’t you?” asked Cessya.

“The walls and roof. We might even be able to use some of the armaglass for windows in a few places, if the laser holds out.” Nylan coughed, trying to clear the stone and mortar dust from his throat. “I wanted to get the stoves and furnace in, too.”

“A furnace?” The two looked at each other.

“Pretty crude. Wood-fired and wide heat ducts. A big airreturn down the stair pedestal-that’s already in place.”

“You think big, don’t you?”

“I suppose so, but you need space when there’s snow outside over your head.” Nylan smiled wryly. “The snow nomads didn’t do all that winter hunting just for food. If they’d all stayed around the fires, they’d have killed each other.” He frowned. “We probably need some timbers inside so that people can work on skis after it gets cold.”

The two marines shook their heads as the engineer checked the laser, still stored in the space under the lower stairs, and then walked up the hill toward the portable generator with a single firin cell.

He checked the readout on the cell being recharged-over eighty-three percent-and disconnected it, replacing it with the discharged cell. Then he walked back down to the tower where the three marines had cleaned the trough and racked their tools.

“I’m going to wash up before dinner,” he said.

“What is dinner?” asked Huldran.

“Gerlich brought in two wild goats, or sheep or something. So we’re going to have a goat stew. Meat’s too tough for anything else,” answered Weblya.

Goat stew, reflected Nylan, probably meant goat meat, wild onions, and a few other unmentionable or unidentifiable plant-root supplements, all thickened with some of the corn flour. “Wonderful.”

He plodded toward the streamlet that seemed to narrow each day. They hadn’t really had much rain in almost two eight-days. That could mean problems for their attempt at crops.

After washing, he walked through the twilight toward the landers and the cook fires, his face cool from the water and the wind off the ice of the higher peaks.

The smell of smoke and bread and wild onions told him that, again, he was among the last to eat.

“Here, ser.” Kyseen handed him one of the rough wooden platters heaped with dark stew, a slab of the flat, fried breadon the side. The edges were only dark, dark brown this time, not black.

“Thank you.” Nylan took it and looked around for one of the sawed-off logs that served as crude stools.

“You can sit here, ser.” Selitra slipped off a log seat. “I’m finished.”

Nylan offered a grateful smile to the lithe marine and sat. “Thank you.” His legs ached; his shoulders ached; his hands were cracked and dry. And he still hadn’t finished the fifth level of the tower.

He tried the bread; it wasn’t soggy, and it even tasted like bread, but heavy, very heavy. He dipped it into the brown mass that was stew and chewed. Either he was starving or the food was improving. Probably both.

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Ryba. “I ate a little earlier.”

Nylan nodded. “I was trying to finish the outer part of the fifth level. We didn’t quite make it.” He looked north to the dark shape of the tower.

Ryba’s eyes followed his. “It’s impressive.”

Nylan snorted. “I just want it to be warm and strong.”

“Just? I recall words about furnaces, stoves, and water.”

“Those all go with being secure and warm.” He dipped the corner of the bread into the stew and scooped more into his mouth.

“Those weren’t common brigands,” Ryba said quietly. “Their blades and bows were better than those of some of Lord Nessil’s armsmen.”

“Bounty hunters?” Nylan finally asked.

“I think so. The local lord has probably offered some sort of reward to get rid of us. We’ll probably see more bandits or brigands, maybe even a large force by the end of the summer.”

The engineer shook his head.

“Your tower looks better and better.” Ryba’s fingers kneaded the tight muscles in his shoulders.

Nylan swallowed. “I’m not sure I like being right in quite that way.”

“It’s better than being wrong.”

He couldn’t argue with that and looked toward the larger fire, where the marines had gathered around Ayrlyn.

“What about a song?” asked Llyselle.

“A song?” questioned the red-haired comm officer, her voice wry.

“About how you angels routed the bandits,” suggested Narliat.

“I don’t know about routed” muttered Denalle, her eyes dropping to the dressing on her right arm. Her left hand strayed toward the second dressing that covered her forehead, then dropped away. With a wince, she closed her eyes for a moment.

“I don’t make up songs that quickly,” answered Ayrlyn.

“But you are a minstrel, are you not?” asked Narliat.

“This is a verbal culture,” pointed out Saryn.

“Too verbal,” growled Gerlich, glaring at Narliat.

Nylan could feel himself tensing at Gerlich’s response and forced himself to let his breath out slowly.

“And it has too many wizards,” added the hunter. “And I don’t understand why the wizards serve the nobles, the lords, whatever they are. Those wizards have real powers.”

“The wizards, they cannot stand against cold iron,” answered Narliat, “and there are not a great many wizards.”

“Still don’t see …”

“Oh, Gerlich …” murmured Ryba, barely loud enough for Nylan to hear. “Think, for darkness’ sake.”

Nylan thought also, about cold iron, wondering why cold iron would prove a problem for a wizard. He could handle it, and Narliat said he was a wizard.

“Cold iron?” he finally asked.

“Why yes, Mage. The white ones, they cannot handle cold iron. It’s said that it burns them terribly.” Narliat shrugged. “I have not seen this, but I have never seen a white wizard touch iron. Even their daggers are bronze.”

Nylan frowned. Why would that be so? “Thank you.”

“Now that we have that cleared up,” Ryba said too brightly, “how about that song?”

Ayrlyn picked up the small four-stringed lutar she had brought down from the Winterlance, just as Ryba had brought the Sybran blades.

“How about this one?” Ayrlyn strummed the strings, adjusted one peg, then strummed again, and made another adjustment before clearing her throat.

A captain is a funny thing, a spacer with a net,

an angel gambling with her death, who never lost a bet.

The captain, she took us to those demon-towers,

then brought us back right through Heaven’s showers …

Nylan winced, knowing that the second verse would be bawdy, and the third even bawdier, then glanced at Ryba, who was grinning.

“I’ve heard worse versions,” she said. “Much worse.”

Raucous laughter began to rise around the fire even before Ayrlyn finished the last verse.

“ … and she served him up well trussed, well done!”

The laughter died away.

“An old song? A Sybran song?” asked Denalle.

“I don’t know many,” admitted Ayrlyn, “but there is one.” The redhead readjusted the lutar, then began.