Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (19 page)

   Nylan cleared his throat. “If it is not too impertinent, Regent Zeldyan, might I ask why you wished to see us?”

   “Because I wanted to meet those who are angels to see if they were indeed black demons.”

   “Why does everyone think of us that way?”

   “How else would they, after all you have done?”

   “And what do you want of us?” Ayrlyn's voice was edged.

   “Have you heard of Cyador, the ancient white land?”

   “Only recently. There was a scroll that mentioned an ancient land where the builders channeled the rivers and built white cities, and then a trader mentioned the name,” said Ayrlyn. “He said traders from Cyador had bought enough wheat in Certis and Gallos to drive the price up. He also said they don't let outside traders in.”

   “They turn away all outsiders, and kill those they find within their borders.” Zeldyan was matter-of-fact. “Once, it is said, they controlled much of what is Lornth, including the copper mines in Cerlyn. They have demanded the return of the mines', and our scouts say that a mighty force of Mirror Lancers advances toward the Grass Hills.”

   At the term “Mirror Lancers,” Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances.

   “You know of this?” Zeldyan's voice sharpened.

   “Not exactly. Those who destroyed our ship used Mirror Towers, and we've often wondered if the white demons of your legends were descended from the ancestors of our enemies.”

   “Can you read?”

   Nylan repressed a smile and answered. “We can both read your tongue and ours.”

   “Scholars and angels and warriors-truly an odd combination.”

   “No more than you, lady,” Nylan offered.

   “Aye, and oddity pays a high price.” Zeldyan coughed. “You are welcome, once you are settled, to study the old scrolls in the tower. Some deal with the white ones, and you may find some information of use-that is, if you choose to remain in Lornth and aid us against Cyador.”

   Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn, catching the tiniest nod. “We would be pleased to remain and offer what help as we can-”

   “I would ask what assistance you might offer,” interrupted Zeldyan, as though she had forgotten to ask, almost as though she knew the answer.

   Nylan kept getting the impression that the blond woman knew far more than she revealed.

   “That may be slight,” Nylan said. “We have no destructive fireballs like the white wizards. I am a smith. Perhaps I can devise some weapons that might help, although I'm not too familiar with what you can do.”

   “You were well acquainted enough to destroy two armies. That should offer some reassurance.” Zeldyan looked to Ayrlyn.

   Nylan slipped from his chair again to redirect Weryl back to the chest, away from the blades.

   “I offer less, lady. I am a healer and a singer, and I can defend myself with a blade.” Ayrlyn dropped her head.

   “Enough to have killed a score, no doubt?”

   “Half that, perhaps,” conceded Ayrlyn.

   The blond regent laughed again. “Most armsmen do not slaughter that many in a life, yet you are apologetic.” She shook her head. “And you, smith?”

   Nylan swallowed. “With a blade, a few more than the healer.”

   “And how did you destroy the flower of Lornth? With what awful magic?”

   Nylan decided to risk it and tell the truth. “With devices from the heavens that no longer work.”

   “So . . . another army could take Westwind?”

   “Perhaps,” Nylan said, “although the tower would withstand anything short of a large siege engine, and there are more guards at Westwind now than when we landed.”

   Zeldyan shook her head. “I would scarcely hazard a single armsman against your Westwind. We gain nothing, and lose everything.” The piercing green eyes raked over the two. “Since you are here, will you aid us against Cyador?”

   “Yes.” The answer was simultaneous.

   “Good. I had hoped you might. I had taken the liberty of installing you in a guest room in the south wing. It even has a bath chamber. The wizards said that baths were important to angels.”

   “You know far more than you reveal, Regent,” Ayrlyn said.

   “That is the business of regents, and, I perceive, of angels.” Zeldyan rose. “Tonight, I will have a supper sent to your room. Tomorrow, you will join us-all the regents-for the evening meal. Lornth is open to you.” The blonde paused. “For now, I would suggest remaining within the walls of the keep. Most within Lornth are not that charitable toward angels.” Her lips quirked. “I have no doubts about your ability to defend yourselves, but I would rather not lose any more souls, and not all of our people have enough sense to understand the futility of crossing blades with you.”

   Ayrlyn followed the regent's example and stood, as did Nylan, but the engineer had to bend to reclaim Weryl, who had returned to the carved chest.

   Both angels bowed.

   Zeldyan rang a small bell, and the door opened. The page stepped inside.

   “If you would escort the angels to their guest chamber- the one in the south wing.”

   “The big one?”

   “The big one, Nistyr,” Zeldyan affirmed.

   “Thank you,” Nylan said quietly.

   “I fear, angel, that thanks will count for little enough once Cyador moves against us.”

   Nylan suspected she was right, but it was still good to have a solid roof and food-even if he still had no idea of where their future truly might lie.

DISDAINING THE ANGEL Ryba, the smith Nylan, knowing the fate of the once-mighty hunter Gerlich, made his way from Westwind, with all the stealth and craft that befitted the one who had re-created the fires of Heaven and the rains of death.

   The soul-singer Ayrlyn accompanied him, and a child, and far more harm than mighty Ryba did these three portend for all of Candar, and all lands, even unto the ends of the world. .. .

   The Angel and Marshal of Westwind was sore vexed, and sent she her guards after the three, but, against the dark arts of the smith and the singer, they could not prevail, and in time the three came to the ancient and powerful land of Lornth.

   The people of Lornth closed their shutters as the angels passed, and feared as the dark shadows crossed their doors.

   The leader of the council of Lornth was a woman, and guileless, and, beguiled by Nylan and the sweet songs of the dark singer and the seeming innocence of the child, she offered them respite, and opened her land unto these dark ones, despite the counsel of those who cautioned against what would come from the angels.

   And there, for time, abided the mighty smith and the singer of dark songs, and the child.

         Colors of White

         (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

         Preface

AS HE COMPLETED dressing, Nylan glanced around the spacious room, taking in the pale pink stone walls, the two ornately carved dark wood wardrobes, and the matching wooden armchairs beside a game table that doubled as an in-chamber dining table.

   Ayrlyn sat up in the bed and yawned. “Do we find breakfast?”

   Nylan shrugged.

   “All right.” Ayrlyn set her feet on the carpet. “I'm outnumbered.”

   “Outnumbered, but never outvoted,” answered the engineer.

   “.Voting doesn't count here, remember?” She rubbed her eyes.

   “It doesn't, but what do you think?” Nylan sat and balanced Weryl on his knee, offering the boy leftover greenjuice from the covered cup.

   “About what?” With another yawn, Ayrlyn padded toward the wash basin in the adjoining chamber.

   “Zeldyan.”

   “She's pragmatic. Warm-hearted, but that won't get in her way of doing what she thinks is best.” Ayrlyn looked at the wash basin. “She wants her son to have the best, and to live to inherit it. I'd guess that we'd have to have her on our side, but she already is. She needs us, although I don't know exactly why she thinks we can help Lornth with Cyador.”

   “We're angels,” pointed out Nylan, deadpan.

   “She's not that credulous. She wants us to do something.”

   “You would bring that up,” said the engineer. “Such as defeating Cyador and retaining these copper mines?”

   “Probably, if not worse.” Ayrlyn struggled into her leathers. “I wish I had some outfits like hers. These are going to get too hot here.”

   “For you?” Nylan laughed.

   Thrap! At the rap on the door, the two angels looked at each other.

   “Yes?” said Nylan, loudly.

   “Your breakfast, ser and lady,” announced a voice from the door.

   Ayrlyn unbolted the door for the square-faced serving girl.

   Breakfast was piled on a single platter on a large tray- eggs cooked into a flattened mass with cheese, two long blackened sausages. Beside the platter on the tray were a loaf of black bread, two applelike fruits, two pitchers-one brown and one gray-and two empty green stoneware mugs.

   “Visen had to guess, ser and lady,” said the dark-haired girl. “If you would tell the pages or me if there's something you would like better, she would be pleased to cook it.” She bowed again.

   “Thank you. This is fine,” said Ayrlyn.

   With a nervous smile, the girl slipped toward the door and was gone.

   “I haven't had service like this in years,” murmured Nylan.

   “I never had it.” Ayrlyn eased herself into the chair across the table from Nylan and Weryl.

   “Sausage is pretty rank,” said Ayrlyn after a time, pouring greenjuice into her mug. “It feels all right, but it's . . . something.”

   “Blood sausage, I think,” Nylan said after one bite. “It is rank.” Try as he might, he managed only three bites. Weryl spat out his first morsel.

   “The opinion is universal,” Ayrlyn noted, swigging more greenjuice.

   “The bread is good.” Nylan offered Weryl the cup, and the boy grabbed it with both hands.

   When the tray was empty-except for the uneaten black sausages-the engineer glanced at the flame-haired healer. “We're fed. What should we do?”

   “Talk to people,” suggested Ayrlyn. “Talk to as many as we can.”

   After they had washed their hands and taken care of other needs, including a quick change for Weryl, Nylan eased open the heavy wooden door. The two wore single blades, those at their belts, and Nylan carried Weryl in his left arm, rather than in the carrypak still damp from washing.

   The hall was dim, despite the light pinkish color of the stone walls and floor tiles, and empty. With a shrug Nylan turned right. Their boots echoed on the tiles as they headed toward the cross-corridor at the end of the hall. Around the corner and at the archway that led to the old tower where they had met Zeldyan, they found a pair of guards.

   “Off-limits?” asked Nylan with a smile.

   “If you please, ser,” answered the wiry .guard. His taller companion remained silent, though both looked at the angels and then at Weryl. The boy smiled, and a ghost of a response creased the shorter guard's face.

   “We're strangers here,” the engineer began, “and you could help us by telling us a few things we don't know. No, I'm not after gossip, or anything like that. How old is Lornth? Do you know?”

   The wiry guard frowned. “Can't say as I'd be knowing that, ser. Some say that Lord Sillek was the fifteenth lord of Lornth; others say he was only the eleventh. Don't know as that helps much.”

   “How big is Lornth?”

   “Well... I'd not know how many kays from here to there, but now that Lord Sillek added Rulyarth, those that owe him allegiance hold lands that run from the headwaters of the river near Clynya all the way to the sea, and from the Westhorns least halfway through the grasslands. Clynya's a good eight-day's ride, maybe more, right up the river from Lornth. Berlitos-that's the nearest place you'd call a town in Jerans-it'd be a good seven days' ride west from Rohrn.”

   “Where's Rohrn?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “ 'Bout two days' ride upriver-on the west side. Pretty town. Older than Lornth, but the Jeranyi used to raid it a lot, back a hundred years or so. Least, that was what my da told me.”

   “Are the Jeranyi still a problem?”

   “Not since Lord Sillek burned out their fort near Clynya and sent them packing. Lord Ildyrom even paid tribute last year.” The wiry guard snorted. “This year might be another thing. Except we don't have to worry about the Suthyans or the Westhorns, and that means ser Gethen could send a force right after them. Ser Fornal's been out gathering armsmen, and I'd guess that means ser Gethen has no great faith in Lord Ildyrom's promises. Who would? His consort has a bigger mace than he does-begging your pardon, angels.” The wiry guard flushed.

   “What's expected at dinners here?” Nylan tried for a less controversial subject.

   The two guards exchanged glances and shrugged.

   “You might ask Genglois, ser,” said the taller guard. “He's the seneschal, and he has a study at the base of the stairs, but you'll have to take the other steps-back up that way.” His head inclined toward the other end of the cross-corridor.

   Nylan got the impression that it was time to move on. “Thank you.”

   Ayrlyn smiled, and they retraced their steps back up the cross-corridor and down the steps, then back down the empty lower cross-corridor. No lamps or candles were lit, and the corridors were darker than early twilight.

   The door to Genglois's chamber was open.

   “You be the angels, I see,” said the heavyset man in purple, looking up from the small table that served as a desk and, from the greasy shoulder joint and bread on the platter there, as a dining table as well. A single candle flickered in a wall sconce in the windowless room.

   “The guards suggested you might be able to help us.”

   “Me? I can get the pages to bring you food and more water, or to empty the chamber pots, or direct you to the stablemaster or armsmaster. That sort of thing-not much more.” The seneschal paused. “Fine child, there.”

   “Thank you,” said Nylan.

   “We don't know much about Lornth or the regents,” offered Ayrlyn. “We'd rather not waste time when we meet with the regents asking questions about things everyone in Lornth knows.”

   “Some of that... some of that, I know.” Genglois gestured to the two stools. “Not that I've much room, but stools are fine for pages, not for warriors like you.” He paused, and the deep-set eyes centered on Ayrlyn. “You are all warriors, are you not?”

   “Yes. Some are better than others, though.” Nylan took the stool directly across from the seneschal.

   Genglois took a gulp from the greasy goblet on the table. “Jegel said that the head angel-”

   “The Marshal?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “He said the Marshal threw her blade, and it went right through Lord Nessil's breastplate. That true?”

   “Yes,” Nylan sard.

   Genglois shook his head. “Jegel-he always said what was-but I wondered about that. Maybe . . . maybe you angels will keep old Karthanos in line, though. He be a devious one. Anything else you want to know?”

   “The other regent, Zeldyan's sire?”

   “Old Gethen, you mean? He and Sillek-they took Rulyarth, and he reorganized the whole port. Had it making coins when the Suthyans couldn't. Course, it took the two of them. That's how Sillek met Zeldyan, they say-went to Carpa to talk strategy with Gethen-he was a friend of Sillek's sire, too- and he met her there. Never saw a lord so in love with his lady. She still loves him, and it's been more than half a year.”

   “What about the Suthyans?” pursued Nylan, easing a piece of chalk from Weryl's hand, and looking at the characters on the slate-apparently a personal form of shorthand for a menu-that night's meal?

   “The Suthyans-they're traders, and coin is all that matters to them. Had a big banquet last year-every year, almost-for Lygon of Bleyans, except that the regents said he would not be welcome in the keep again. Seemed all right for a trader, and he even paid his respects to Lady Ellindyja. But you wanted to know about the Suthyans. They have ships, and they sail everywhere. Bled us dry when they had Rulyarth, but matters are better now, thanks to Lord Sillek. Poor man-did so much, and got pushed into fighting you angels. You know”-Genglois lowered his voice-“he didn't want to. His holders pushed for it, and he was not ready to stand against them all-that's hard for a lord even as old and respected as ser Gethen. Had Sillek lived longer, he might have. Then who knows . . . matters might have been different.”

   “They could have been,” Ayrlyn said. “We did not wish to fight, either. But there's nowhere to retreat on the Roof of the World.”

   “Told that to Koric, and he just laughed. He be dead, and that says much. An old seneschal, and I prattle too much.” Genglois stopped and refilled the goblet with wine so vinegary that Nylan could smell it.

   “How do the protocols work for dinners here?” Nylan asked.

   “There be few indeed. No spitting at table, and no belching. Just follow the Regent Zeldyan. Most proper, she be, most proper without being all stiff like ... anyway. Most bring their daggers, but I lay out some, dull ones. Eat hearty.” The seneschal smiled. “Anything special you like?”

   “Pastries,” admitted Nylan. “We see few on the Roof of the World.”

   Genglois laughed. “I will tell Visen.” He looked toward the empty hall behind the angels.

   “What can you recall about Cyador?” Nylan asked, ignoring the seneschal's glance.

   “Not a great deal, ser.” Genglois shook his head, and his jowls wobbled ever so slightly. “The trouble with the mines- that was in the time of Lord Sillek's grandsire or before.”

   “We're strangers, remember?” Ayrlyn explained. “Could you explain what the trouble with the mines was?”

   “Oh ... that was when Berphi was Lord of Cyador-must have been twoscore years back, maybe threescore. Lord Berphi asked for the return of the mines and the removal of all Lornians. Except he called us barbarians.”

   “What happened?”

   The ample functionary shrugged. “Nothing. Lord Berphi went to his ancestors, and there was some disturbance in Cyador, and the whole matter vanished.”

   “Until now?” suggested Nylan.

   “If you see troubles riding their pale horses toward you, angel lord, it often pays to wait to see how many actually cross the river bridge. Even I have found that few make it that far.” Genglois stood. “If you will excuse me, ser, I needs must visit the kitchen.”

   “Of course.”

   From the seneschal's cramped place, they crossed the courtyard to the stables.

   “Ser and ser?” A slight youth in scarred leathers met them even before they had put three steps inside the stables. From the depths of the structure came the brawking of chickens.

   “We wanted to check our mounts,” Nylan said.

   “Good beasts,” the youth said. “They are in the second row.” He turned as if they would follow. “So is the gray you used as a pack animal.”

   Ayrlyn grinned. So did Nylan as they followed the dark-haired stable boy's quick steps.

   “Here you be-the dark mare and the chestnut.” The youth pointed to the stalls. “Not like some that come in, so thin you know the rider has only grazed 'em. Hoofs worn, and the dark mare, she be needing new shoes afore long, least that be what Edicat said. Chestnut be sound, shoes and all.” The boy glanced from Nylan to Ayrlyn and back.

   “Who are you?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Merthek. Second stable boy, leastwise till Kielmer joins the armsmen.”

   “Do you want to be an armsman?” asked Nylan, wondering about the phrasing the youth had used.

   “Me? No, ser. Love the beasts, not cold iron. Cold iron loves none save blood, and that price is high.” He looked boldly at the smith. “Especially if one must fight angels.”

   “The price is high for angels as well,” Nylan answered dryly.

   Merthek glanced at Nylan's blade. “A short blade, yet deadly.”

   “Deadly enough,” Nylan admitted. “I would rather it weren't necessary.”

   “So long as men want what others have,” offered the youth, “blades be necessary.”

   “Unfortunately,” answered Ayrlyn. “Stick to your horses, Merthek.”

   “I will, ser and lady, and if you need anything here, ask for me. That is, if I do not find you first.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, then offered a bow. “If I am not here, the stablemaster is Guisanek, and he is a good man, and one who knows all about the beasts.”

   “We will.” Nylan peered over the stall wall at the mare, who stood on clean straw and ate what looked to be grain from a wooden manger.

   After Merthek escorted them back to the courtyard, Nylan took a deep breath. “I need a break. Let's go up that tower and check out the surrounding terrain.” He pointed to the smaller tower that rose just to the south of where he thought their chamber was-not the larger square tower that held the room where they had met Zeldyan.

   “You sound like the engineer again.”