Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (8 page)

   “Cyador again. Why haven't we heard about this place before?”

   “They could be isolationists, like the Rats.”

   “In a low-tech culture?” asked Saryn from in front of them, turning in her saddle for a moment.

   “It's easier in a low-tech culture,” the engineer pointed out.

   Ayrlyn shivered and fastened her jacket as they reached the top of the ridge where the wind was stronger.

   Nylan rode the mare all the way back past the tower and up to the stables, unlike Ryba, who dismounted at the causeway and let one of the guards in Llyselle's squad guide her roan up past the smithy and into the canyon that held the stable.

   Ayrlyn rode beside Nylan, a pensive look on her face.

   After unsaddling and grooming their mounts, they walked back down toward the tower, alone on the stones of the road, since Nylan was among the slowest in grooming and handling mounts.

   “What do you think?” Nylan asked.

   “What do you think?” the healer replied. “Trust your own feelings. If I disagree, I'll tell you, but don't look to me to interpret what you feel.”

   Nylan flushed slightly, then coughed. “All right. When I'm uncertain, I try to feel out others before saying anything.”

   “I know. What do you feel?”

   “Ryba's angry. She's looking for things to get angry at me for. We've always had to haggle with Skiodra. Didn't you have to haggle on all those trading runs you made last year?”

   “Everyone in Candar likes to haggle, I think.”

   “She didn't even want me to come, and then she said something about remembering my blades-as if I hadn't dealt with Skiodra before or that ambush they set up with the herder. She's suddenly treating me like a child.”

   The healer nodded, hunched into her jacket against the late afternoon wind.

   “I don't like it. It's like the way she treated Gerlich, except she hasn't drawn steel against me.”

   “She can't do that. You may be a pain in her Marshal's ass, dear, but all her guards love you, and they'd like to do it from closer than they do.” Ayrlyn paused. “Don't let them.”

   “I've gotten that word.” He grinned, but only momentarily. “That's going to be more of a problem.”

   “I know. What do you think you should do?”

   The smith shook his head. “I don't like it. I've darkness near killed myself making a safe haven here, and it's not going to be pleasant any longer. It may not even be safe for me much longer. I'm not a Gerlich, and trying a coup would only destroy Westwind, even if I could do it. And that would only make things worse for the children ... for everyone but us, probably.”

   “You're right there.” Ayrlyn paused by the practice yard, well up the road from the end of the causeway. Her eyes drifted toward a last drooping snow lily that arched out of one of the few remaining patches of snow on the north side of the loose-stacked stones of the practice yard wall. “Can't you just avoid Ryba?”

   “How? Westwind isn't that big. If I do what she says, she'll push for me to do more and more-or make me less and less useful-like with this smith training bit. She's good at maneuvering, and pretty soon I'll look either as obstinate as Gerlich or as useless as Nerliat was. At least, I think so. What do you think?”

   “It doesn't matter what I think. I can just be a meek healer and stay in the background. You've got a lot of support from Siret, Istril, even Huldran and Llyselle, though,” mused Ayrlyn.

   “Right,” Nylan snorted. “Saryn sides with Ryba, and she trains most of the new guards-or Ryba does. Maybe . . . what? Seven of forty guards think I'm good for something. Most of the new guards dislike or distrust men, and they accept me because I'm not like the men they knew-but I'm a man. Just how long will it be before there are a hundred guards, and half don't even know me?”

   “That would take a while.”

   “Like being buried in a slow avalanche or being tied down and consumed by ants over the years.” Nylan winced at his own image.

   “You don't sound happy. What do you want to do?”

   “It's not a question of wanting. It's a question of seeing the storm on the horizon and finding cover.” He laughed, once, harshly. “Why is it so hard? I could see the need for a tower before anyone else, and I built it. I can see the need to leave, and I avoid facing it. What's the difference?”

   “Three children?”

   “That... and, I told you before, deep inside ...” He swallowed. “It's not exactly ... easy ... to face an unknown world alone. I don't like it. I don't know where to go, and it feels like everything I've done is almost wasted.”

   “Is it?”

   Nylan shook his head. “Dyliess, Kyalynn, Weryl-they'll be safe.”

   Ayrlyn frowned at the last name, but did not speak.

   “They'll be safe,” Nylan repeated. “It isn't easy to admit that. I don't know about us, though.”

   “I'm glad you said us ... but. . . you never asked me.”

   “That's where you've been guiding me, dear. Don't think I didn't notice.”

   “You could have asked ...” A glimmer of a smile flitted around the corners of her mouth.

   “All right. I am planning to descend into the hot depths of the demon's hell to avoid jeopardizing everyone else and my children. Would you like to accompany me on this foolhardy expedition?”

   “I thought you'd never get around to inviting me.”

   Nylan put his right arm around Ayrlyn as they walked.

   “You're cold.”

   “I'm always cold up here. Why do you think I agreed?”

   “Not for my charm?”

   “Not just for your charm.”

   A wry smile settled on Nylan's face for a moment, then vanished as his eyes took in the upper level of Tower Black, and the window to the Marshal's quarters.

ZELDYAN HANDED THE scroll to Fornal with her free hand. The dark-haired regent slowly read through it, occasionally stopping and puzzling out an unfamiliar word. As he read, the blond woman rocked Nesslek on her knee, steering his fingers away from the goblet on the table before her.

   The gray-haired Gethen looked toward the window, then rose and walked to it, sliding it wide open. The cool breeze carried the damp scent of recent spring rain into the tower room. For a moment, Gethen looked across Lornth to the orange ball of the sun that hung over the river to the west of the hold. Then he walked back to the table, where he refilled his goblet before reseating himself.

   “This is one of your best,” Zeldyan offered, taking a sip of the dark red wine, before setting her goblet down more toward the center of the table, out of Nesslek's reach.

   “It is good. Even the Suthyans paid extra for it.”

   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.”

   “I'll think about it.”

   “Don't think too long,” Ryba said. “I've given you the chance to think all winter.”

   “I won't take that long,” he promised.

   With a curt nod, Ryba turned toward the door, then stopped. “Will you be here?”

   “I have some notes to do-on the mill.”

   “Will you listen for Dyliess, then, until I get back?”

   “Of course.”

   Another nod, and the Marshal was gone.

   Nylan walked to the window and looked out, up toward the ridge and the watchtower. He couldn't see the ice-needle Freyja from his single window.

   After he studied the mountains for a time, and his muscles began to relax, he went back to the work table, where he used the striker to light the single candle. Although his night vision was nearly as good as his day vision for most matters, the candle did help in writing and reading. As the flame lengthened, and cast light from the polished bronze reflector onto the table, he sat down on the stool and looked at the papers weighted down under the ornate hilt of a blade that had broken at the tang. He had found it in the plunder from the great battle, long since separated from the actual blade. The hilt was heavy, overdone, and had doubtless added a poor balance that had contributed to the blade's breaking, along with a tang that had been too narrow, but the hilt itself made a decorative paperweight.

   In the dim candlelight, Nylan squinted at the crude paper on the table, then dipped the quill into the ink and began to draw-slowly and carefully. Each section of the mill had to be laid out so that there would be no mistakes. The purple outside the open window turned velvet black, and the chirp and whistle of unnamed insects rose and fell.

   At the tap on the door, he looked up. Ayrlyn's face peered in.

   He motioned, and the healer entered, easing the door shut behind her.

   “Ryba and Saryn are still down in the great room, talking over something obscure, like whether caltrops are really that effective except in defending fixed emplacements and whether two-handed blades are useful in mounted attacks. Saryn was advocating lances and beefed-up stirrups . . .”

   Nylan smiled wryly.

   The healer shook her head and pointed at the stack of papers before Nylan. “What are you working on there?”

   “The plans for the sawmill.”

   “You didn't do that for the tower, or the bathhouse, or the smithy,” she pointed out, then leaned over him and kissed the back of his neck.

   “I didn't have to. I was here.”

   “You are serious, aren't you?”

   “Ryba practically ordered me to bed Ydrall. She wants to see the gene mix with locals.”

   “I take it you were reluctant.”

   “That wasn't the real point. She was giving me another shove. I told her I'd think about it. I have no intention of thinking about it.” He rubbed his forehead.

   “You got ink on your forehead,” Ayrlyn said.

   He tried to blot it away with the back of his hand. “Then, when I said I wasn't the Gerlich type, she said I was, except that fewer women appealed to me, and if Ydrall didn't appeal to find a local who did so that she could confirm that the genes mixed.”

   “Did she put it that way?”

   “Pretty much.”

   Ayrlyn pursed her lips. “That makes you angry.”

   “That, and basically being told my prime value is as a stud.”

   “She's angry at you for choosing me.”

   “I'm glad I did,” Nylan said. “I wish I'd seen who you were earlier.”

   “I wasn't who I am now back then, if that makes sense. I was a mousy comm officer.”

   “Neither was I. I was a withdrawn engineer. I still am.”

   Ayrlyn's eyes dropped to the papers. “Are you going to tell Ryba about all these plans?”

   “Not until we're on our way out of here.”

   “She may not let us have mounts.”

   “That's why we need to make it quick,” Nylan said. “Right now, there's sympathy for me, for you. If we let her drag it out, it will get so unpleasant that people will just want us gone. She's proved she's good at that.”

   “For someone who wasn't sure about leaving, you've reached a big decision quickly.”

   The engineer-smith-healer shook his head. “To see something I should have seen two years ago? Hardly. Hardly.” He took a deep breath.

   Ayrlyn bent over and blew out the candle, then kissed the back of his neck again. “You were almost finished for tonight, weren't you?”

   “If you say so . . .” Nylan eased out of the chair.