Fall of Angels (22 page)

  
In the short time he'd been in the lander, Ryba had managed to start the process of restoring order. Kyseen was rebuilding the cook fire, and straightening up that area, while Huldran had managed to divert the main flow of water from the bean field and had a crew working on the potatoes.

  
Ryba was checking over the mounts, and Istril headed off with two others to see about rounding up two mounts that had left the makeshift corral.

  
Everything, except the tower, it seemed, was makeshift, and he still didn't have the demon-damned thing finished- or even the plans worked out for the bathhouse and laundry addition and the jakes in the tower.

  
Slowly he walked back to the tower, where the lower level lay filled with puddles, one of them almost a half cubit deep. Drains. He had forgotten drains-another mistake to be rectified.

  
When he reached the tower yard, and the slowly vanishing puddles, he turned and looked up, studying the rain, now only falling steadily in a form somewhere between a fine mist and a heavy drizzle. The piles of white hailstones, like bleached bones, stood out on the green of the meadow.

  
Then he walked up into the tower and started up the stairs to check on the damage to the east roof.

  
As he climbed, he wondered about his brick-making and the crude oven, then shook his head. That had been low tech, and if the rains had carried it away, he would find a way to rebuild it.

XXIX

HISSL STARES INTO the glass, looking at the waving stalks of grass, and at the burned fort, with the few wisps of smoke still threading into the sky. Concentrating again, he waits for the image to re-form, and it does, showing an empty road that would lead to Berlitos, should he desire the glass to follow the track.

  
There are no signs of the Jeranyi. Hissl tugs at his chin. Ildyrom must have pulled back a long ways, perhaps as far as Berlitos.

  
The wizard frowns, and the white mists fill the glass, eventually showing a line of horse troopers trudging down a forest road behind the fir-tree banner. Since there are no forests near Clynya, that means Ildyrom has in fact stopped pressing his claim on the grasslands-for now.

  
The white wizard shakes his head. "You'll be stuck here for seasons-seasons, angel-damn!" His words are low, but they hiss with frustration.

  
He looks around the small room, then out the narrow window into the blue of the morning and over the low thatched roofs of Clynya toward the West Fork he cannot see from the second story of the barracks. As he does, the image fades from the glass.

  
"Terek . . . with you scheming in Lornth, how will I ever get out of here? If I'm successful, Ildyrom won't get the grasslands back, and I'll be stuck here. If I'm not. . ." He shakes his head and looks down at the blank glass.

 
 
In time, he studies the mirror once more, and the mists swirl, and in the midst of the swirling white appears the Roof of the World, and the black tower that stands, despite the storm, and the silver-haired figure in olive-black who trudges up the stone steps. The glass also shows the aura of darkness that surrounds the man in the glass.

  
"A mage, and he knows it not." After a time, Hissl gestures, and the image vanishes, leaving only a blank and flat mirror on the small table.

  
Finally, he smiles, tightly, thinking about bandits and the Roof of the World.

XXX

STANDING OUTSIDE THE lander, with the light wind that promised fall ruffling his hair, Nylan slowly finished the gruel that passed as morning porridge, along with cold bread, his thoughts on the tower once more.

  
Huldran and the others had been less than pleased when Nylan had insisted on putting a drain in the bottom of the tower, nor had Ryba been happy when he had used the laser to drill through some of the rock.

  
"A waste of power . .."

  
Nylan disagreed-the lowest level of the tower needed to be dry. Dampness destroyed too many things. He swallowed the last bite of the lumpy gruel with a shudder and glanced toward the tower. At least the roof and doors were in place, and he could concentrate on making the place livable. Outside the front door, Cessya and Weblya had already begun to haul stones in to fill the space between the walls of the causeway.

  
The engineer walked over to the wash kettle and rinsed the wooden platter before racking it. He hoped that they could finish the tower kitchen before long-but he needed to work out the problems with making the water pipes. If the climate were warmer he could have just built a covered aqueduct, but that would freeze solid for half the year.

  
He walked back toward Ryba, his eyes rising back toward the dark stones of the tower that was somehow tall, squat, and massive all at the same time.

  
"What are you thinking?" asked Ryba. "You're not really even here."

  
"About water pipes, kitchens, laundry." He paused. "About building a bathhouse or whatever."

  
"I suppose you want to start a soap factory, too."

  
"Someone else can worry about that. I'm an engineer, not a chemist."

  
"Good." She laughed harshly. "The bandits are whittling away at our ammunition. We need more blades. Can you coax out another two dozen?"

  
"Another two dozen? Don't most of the marines have one?"

  
"They'll need two."

  
Nylan pursed his lips. "I can do some. I don't know how many. I thought the cells would be the problem, but there's a raggedness in the powerheads."

  
"And you had to drill a drain?"

  
"Yes . . . if you didn't want all the supplies to mold and mildew."

  
She shook her head. "You're stubborn."

  
"Not so stubborn as you are." Nylan wondered how long before everyone would think he was obsessed with building, if they didn't already. Why didn't they see that they had one chance-just one?

  
A single clang on the triangle echoed through the morning. Ryba and Nylan looked up to see Llyselle ride across the meadow. Llyselle bounced slightly in the saddle, but Nylan knew that he bounced even more when he rode. He didn't have Sybran nomad blood-or training. The tall, silver-haired marine reined up outside the cooking area, but before she could dismount, Ryba stood there, Nylan not far behind her.

  
"There's a herder down there, waving a white flag," Llyselle announced. "He's got some sheep or goats, and something in cages."

  
"Let's hope he wants to sell something." Ryba pointed at the nearest marine-Siret. "Go find Narliat, and Ayrlyn, and ask them to join us."

  
"Yes, ser." Siret glanced at Nylan with a strange look in her deep green eyes, then turned away, but Nylan could tell she was definitely thicker in the midsection, unlike Selitra. Yet Selitra had been sleeping with Gerlich, and she didn't seem pregnant. But Siret, the silent silver-haired guard?

  
Before long, Narliat limped up, using a cane, but without the makeshift leg cast he had worn for so long.

  
Ryba repeated Llyselle's explanation.

  
"Most herders would not come this high with you angels here. Once this was good summer pasture, but now .. ."The former armsman shrugged. "Times have been hard, and your coins are good. He would not have to drive animals all the way to Lornth or to Gallos. The cages-they might be chick-ins."

  
"What does the white banner mean?" asked Ryba.

  
"Ser Marshal, it means he wants to get your attention. Beyond that? I do not know."

  
"Hmmmm ... we need all the supplies we can buy or grow, and they probably won't be enough." Ryba glanced up at the tower and then back to Ayrlyn and Narliat. "How do we approach this herder?"

  
"You walk down with a handful of people, I suppose," began Ayrlyn.

  
"Just one or two-not the marshal or the mage," added Narliat. "Powerful angels should not start negotiations with herders."

  
"We did with Skiodra," pointed out Ryba.

  
"That, it was different, because it was under a trade flag and Skiodra was himself there, and he is a powerful trader."

  
"If you say so." Ryba glanced around. "All right. Everyone! Get your weapons. Let's hope we won't need them. Meet by the triangle at the watch station on the right... by the road to the tower." She turned to Fierral. "Where's Gerlich?"

  
"Where he is every morning. Out hunting." The head marine's voice bore overtones of disgust.

  
"If he shows up ... tell him, too."

  
Nylan hurried to the lander where he reclaimed his sidearm and the blade he had forged, which was too small for the overlarge scabbard. He tried not to fall over the damned thing every time he wore it. Ryba might never be without her weapons, but he couldn't work with a pistol at his side and a blade banging his leg.

  
Ryba had the big roan saddled when he reached the watch station.

  
The herder waited below at the foot of the ridge. Occasionally, the man looked up the slope, then back at the milling sheep, or shifted his weight as he leaned against the side of the cart.

  
Finally, after talking to Fierral and Istril, Ryba nodded.

  
Carrying the small circular shields they had reclaimed from the last brigands, with Narliat between them, Berlis and Rienadre walked down the ridge toward the herder, who had a white banner leaned against his cart. Beyond the herder were perhaps five ewes with their lambs.

  
Nylan and Ryba watched from the rocks at the top of the ridge as the three neared the herder. The herder and the three talked, with Narliat doing most of the speaking. Finally, Berlis turned uphill and gestured.

  
Neither Nylan nor Ryba could make out the words.

  
"Do you think it's all right?" asked the captain.

  
"I don't know, but nothing's going to happen if someone doesn't head down there. From what Berlis is trying to tell us, the trader won't trade unless a more important person appears."

  
"I don't like this," muttered Ryba.

  
"All right, ride down. That gives you more mobility-and have Istril and some of the others ready to charge like those old Sybran cavalry."

  
"Very funny."

  
"We need the sheep, and maybe those chickens, and you know it. So does the herder. He's gambling that you just won't steal them. You're gambling that it's not some kind of setup."

  
"Wish I could see ... everything ..."

  
Below them, Berlis gestured again.

  
"You can't?"

  
"It comes and goes, and some of it... makes no sense. Some is too clear." Ryba vaulted into the saddle. "Fierral! Istril! Stand by. Llyselle, you ride with me-on the right."

  
Nylan noted that the trees at the base of the ridge were on the right, but before he could speak the two started down the ridge, riding slowly. He kept watching, but nothing changed. The herder watched as the two riders neared, and so did Berlis and Rienadre.

  
Abruptly, Llyselle's horse reared, sending the silver-haired marine flying. Ryba bent low in the saddle, turned her roan toward the trees, and charged.

  
"Let's go!" Fierral and the others galloped down the ridge.

  
Feeling as if he were making a big mistake, Nylan followed on foot. He was halfway down the ridge, his worn boots skidding on the rocky ground before he realized he was alone.

  
Ahead, the mounted marines charged into the trees. Nylan heard the reports of the sidearms and saw the sun flash off Ryba's blade. He kept moving, but, by the time he neared the herder's cart, the action was over.

  
Llyselle was limping toward the cart, looking uphill past Nylan, and the engineer turned and saw Ayrlyn riding down, carrying two large plastic sacks with green crosses on them-medical supplies or dressings. Nylan wished he'd been smart enough to think of a horse or medical supplies, or something. Instead, he'd just run into the middle of what could have been trouble, too late to help and without any support.

  
He pursed his lips as Ayrlyn rode past. There was still trouble. Llyselle was holding her right arm, cradling it, as though it were broken or injured, and Narliat and the herder were still under the cart. Fierral and Istril had charged off downhill through the trees.

  
Nylan kept walking, his eyes checking on all sides. As he neared the cart and the beginning of the forest on his right, he saw several bodies near the trees, and one on the open ridge ground, with two marines beside her.

  
The downed marine was Stentana-an arrow through her eye. An arrow, for darkness' sake.

  
Nylan counted eight brigand bodies and, his eyes elsewhere, almost tripped over his scabbard. He caught himself and turned at the sound of hooves, reaching for the blade, but the riders were Istril and Fierral, and they led two more horses, each with a body slung across it.

  
Nylan turned toward the cart. There Ayrlyn was treating a wound caused where an arrow seemed to have ripped into Berlis's thigh. Llyselle stood beside Berlis, waiting.

  
"Strip the bodies and make a cairn down there, over by the rocks," commanded Ryba. "No sense in dragging them up the mountainside. Take all their clothes. We need rags as well as anything-but the clothes all need washing, and then some."