Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Relyn just shook his head.

  “Murkassa?” Nylan turned to the thin and round-faced girl.

  “Yes, Ser Mage.” Murkassa pursed her lips and waited.

  “Tell the honorable Relyn that he’s full of sheep manure.”

  “No, ser. You are the black one, and the marshal is the Angel, and you have brought the Legend to the world.” She looked sideways at Relyn. “The men of these lands, mayhap of all lands, are like Jilkar. They respect only the strong. You have made these women strong-”

  “They were already strong.” Nylan laughed bitterly.

  “Then you have kept them strong, and they will force the men of Candar to respect them-and to respect all women.”

  “That is why Sillek will come to attack Westwind,” said Relyn. “After him may come Lord Karthanos of Gallos.”

  “Is that why Lornth dislikes Jerans?” asked Nylan. “Strong women?”

  Relyn nodded.

  With the low moaning of the wind, the engineer turned toward the windows. “Some mage I am. I can’t even keep this place warm enough.”

  “It is warm enough for the angels to grow and prosper. It is warm enough that all Candar will tremble at the name of Westwind. I should think that would be warm enough.” Relyn’s tone is ironic.

  “You give me far too much praise, Relyn.”

  “No… ser… you do not choose to see that you have changed the world. You have changed me, and you will change others, and in time few indeed will understand the world before the Legend.”

  “You are different,” Murkassa added. “You see women as strong, and as you see them, so are they.”

  “Women are strong. Stronger than men in many ways,” Nylan said.

  “As you say, Mage.”

  Nylan shook his head. Why did they take his words as a statement of faith, as if what he said became true? Outside, the howling of the storm rose, and Nylan wondered, absently, how the sheep, chickens, and horses were faring. The enemy was the winter, not the preconceptions of men in Candar.

  Both Relyn and Murkassa exchanged amused smiles, as if Nylan could not see the obvious. Maybe he couldn’t.

  “I’m going down to work.”

  “Yes, Mage.”

  They smiled again.

  Change the world? Nylan tried not to frown as he left the slowly chilling great room to descend to the woodworking area and his efforts with the cradle and the rocking chair he was beginning. Changing the world by building a tower with rudimentary water and sanitation? By using a dying laser to forge a handful of blades and a few composite bows? By nearly getting killed by a snow cat or always falling into snow over his head?

  He snorted again. He had a cradle to finish-and a rocking chair-and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by delusions of grandeur.

  LVI

  “… DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY Lord Sillek is receiving this trader with such honor…”

  As she catches the murmur from halfway down the long table on the low dais, Zeldyan smiles and, under the table, squeezes Sillek’s hand.

  He turns and smiles at his consort.

  “The honorable Lygon of Bleyans!” announces the young armsman - in - training at the doorway to the dining hall, his voice on the edge of cracking.

  Retaining the smile on his face, Sillek stands to greet Lygon. Zeldyan rises almost simultaneously. At the end of the table to Sillek’s right, the lady Ellindyja smooths her face into a mold of polite interest. At the end to the left, Ser Gethen cultivates a look of indifference.

  Lygon, a round-faced man wearing a maroon velvet tunic and a silver chain, marches up between the two rows of tables in the dining hall as the murmurs die away and the leading tradespeople and landowners of Lornth watch.

  A quick trumpet fanfare sounds as Lygon steps onto the dais.

  Sillek gestures to the empty seat to his right. “Welcome, Lygon. Welcome to Lornth, and to our hospitality.” He steps back. “This is Zeldyan, my lady and consort. Zeldyan, this is Lygon, the most honorable trader of Suthya.”

  “Whenever you rulers call me honorable, Sillek, I want to reach for my purse.” Lygon overtops Sillek by half a head, but bows low, first to the Lord of Lornth, and then to Zeldyan. “It is a pleasure to meet you, lady, and to know that Lord Sillek has you to enchant him and grace his towers.”

  “It is my pleasure to meet you, ser,” Zeldyan responds, smiling brightly. “And I will do my best to offer such grace, especially since you do us such honor.” Behind her, Gethen nods minutely. “We don’t want your purse, Lygon, just your presence.” Sillek laughs easily and stands until the trader sits. Around the hall, the murmurs rise again. Lygon stares frankly at Zeldyan for a moment before his eyes return to Sillek. “Your consort, she is a true beauty.” His eyes go back to Zeldyan. “And you are, my lady. Few indeed have your grace and beauty.”

  “I do my poor best for my lord,” Zeldyan answers, “for he is dear to me.”

  Lygon nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as Sillek himself pours the red wine from the pitcher between them into two goblets almost equidistant from each man. The trader takes the goblet fractionally closer to Sillek.

  Sillek lifts the one remaining, raises it, and says, “To your continued health and to good trading.”

  “To health and good trading,” affirms Lygon. Those at the head table drink with Sillek and Lygon, though Zeldyan’s lips barely pass the wine.

  Lygon sets his goblet before him and studies the great hall below the dais. “Quite a gathering.”

  “Only the due of a first trader of Suthya.” Sillek takes another sip from his goblet. “Even my consort’s father made a special trip from Carpa to honor you.”

  “First trader, twentieth trader-what difference does it make?” Lygon shakes his head. “We’re all traders, and we try to be fair to all.”

  Lygon’s voice carries, but his eyes are on Sillek, and he does not see how Ser Gethen’s lips tighten at his words.

  “Fairness-that’s important to Lornth. It always will be,” answers Sillek.

  “I had hoped that Lornth would continue the warm relationship enjoyed in the past with the traders of Suthya, and I am pleased to see such hospitality again offered.” Lygon downs the remaining wine in his goblet with a single swallow, then slices the pearapple on his plate into slivers and pops a pearapple section and a chunk of Rohrn cheese into his mouth. “Always have good cheeses here.”

  “I am glad you find them so, and trust you will always do so.” Sillek takes a swallow of his wine, a swallow far smaller than it appears.

  “The wine’s better than what your sire served. Where’d you find it?”

  Sillek inclines his head toward Zeldyan. “The uplands of Zeldyan’s father’s lands produce a good grape, and better wine.”

  “Ha! Consorted well, for beauty and good wine. You demon, you.” Lygon laughs.

  Sillek smiles, as does Zeldyan, but, at their respective ends of the table, neither Gethen’s nor Ellindyja’s face mirrors such apparent pleasure.

  “Heard some rumors-you know how things go-some rumors that a bunch of crazy women took over a mountaintop on your eastern marches.” Lygon swallows and chews more of the pearapples and cheese. “Some even say,” adds the trader through a full mouth, “they’re evil angels.”

  “That has been said,” acknowledges Sillek, “and, if they survive the winter, I may well be occupied. Then again,” he laughs wryly, “I may be occupied with the Jeranyi. I’m certain you’ve also heard that rumor. Well… it’s true. I’ve got my chief armsman in Clynya. He’s not exactly pleased.”

  “It has also been said that you handed Ildyrom a stinging defeat.” Lygon chews through the rest of the pearapple slices, barely avoiding spitting fragments across the linens.

  At her end of the table, Lady Ellindyja contains a wince.

  “The problem with such victories,” Sillek responds, “is that they require maintenance. And supplies,” he adds, looking at the trader.

  “No business tonight, Lord S
illek,” protests Lygon. “It’s a cold winter out there, and tonight’s the time for warmth and good food.”

  “I stand corrected.” Sillek raises his hands, half in laughter, half in mock defeat.

  Zeldyan smiles. So does her father.

  LVII

  A LOW FIRE, for once, burned in the hearth of the great room.

  Ryba sat in the chair at the end of the table, with Saryn on her right and Nylan on the left. Ayrlyn sat beside Saryn, while Fierral sat next to Nylan with Kyseen beside her. Relyn was seated beside Ayrlyn. Gathered around the foot of the first table on the side below Saryn were Gerlich, Narliat, and Selitra. On the side below Nylan were Huldran, Istril, Murkassa, and Hryessa.

  “I’d guess you’d call this a status or planning meeting.” Ryba’s breath created a flicker in the candle at her end of the table. “I wanted to hear from each of you about how your efforts are going, and any suggestions you might have.” The marshal looked at Gerlich. “Hunting?”

  “It’s getting harder,” Gerlich said. “The deer we do get are thinner. We haven’t seen a snow leopard since the engineer killed his. The big cats have gone to lower grounds-or hibernated. The same for the bears.”

  “The old ones say the leopards talk to each other,” added Murkassa.

  Her breath nearly guttered out the other candle, and Huldran reached out and moved it more toward the center of the table.

  “What about smaller animals?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “It takes a lot of effort to catch them, and what good is a hare when we have to forage for more than a score of people?” Gerlich shrugged, looking toward Kyseen.

  “You get me three hares, and I can make a meal,” affirmed the cook.

  “How are your supplies coming?”

  “Not as well as I’d like,” admitted Kyseen. “We’ve been grinding and powdering some of those roots into the flour, and that stretches it. Some of the guards say it’s bitter. What can I do? The potatoes are good, but we’ll finish those off in another eight-day, maybe two, if we only have them every third day.”

  “The potatoes are all that stick,” said Huldran. “There’s not enough meat, and the loaves are getting smaller.”

  The low moan of the wind outside the great room punctuated her words, and, for a moment, no one spoke.

  “Birds?” asked the marshal.

  “We’ve got owls and gray-hawks up here. That’s all we’ve seen, anyway,” answered Gerlich. “Neither has much meat, and they’re so quick I don’t see how you could shoot them.”

  Ryba nodded and turned to Saryn. “What about the livestock?”

  “There isn’t enough grass and hay for the horses and the sheep,” Saryn said. “We’ve cut back on the corn for the chickens, and they’ve cut back on laying. There’s not enough grain for the rest of the winter for them, either.”

  “The chickens, they lay little in the winter,” said Hryessa. “I would start killing the older ones and let the young ones live for the year ahead.”

  “Can you work that out?” asked Ryba.

  Saryn glanced at Hryessa, then at Ryba, and nodded. “That still doesn’t solve the fodder problem.”

  “The lander we used for storage is more than a third full,” said Selitra.

  “I helped fill that full, I did,” interjected Narliat.

  “We’re only about halfway through the winter,” pointed out Saryn. “There’s no forage out there, and there won’t be even after the snow melts.”

  “There are the fir branches…” suggested Murkassa. “Goats sometimes eat them.”

  “It doesn’t do the goats much good,” pointed out Relyn,. “and sheep can’t eat as many things as goats.”

  “We’re getting short of food,” Ryba pointed out, “and we don’t have enough food for both sheep and mounts.” Her eyes narrowed. “We can get more sheep, one way or another, if we have to. Without mounts we’re dead.”

  “We need twenty mounts,” said Fierral. “And they can’t be skin and bones.”

  The marshal turned back to Saryn. “Figure out a slaughter schedule for the sheep-and horses, if need be-that will leave us with twenty mounts, if you can, by the time there’s something for the sheep and horses to forage on. It would be good to have some sheep left, but… we’ll need the mounts more to get through the summer.”

  “That’s going to take a day or so.”

  “A day or so won’t make any difference. Also, work it out with Kyseen. That’s so she can plan the food schedule to keep everyone as healthy as she. can, given this mess.”

  Saryn nodded.

  “What about timber? Firewood?” asked Ryba.

  “We’re almost out of the green timber for making things,” said Saryn flatly. “We’ve got skis for everyone, and you’ve seen the chairs and room panels-and the cradles. That’s about all we can do this winter. We’re running through the stove wood and firewood. We can’t even drag enough wood up from the forest to replace what we’re burning. If we drag up more than we are now, the horses will need to eat more, and some will get lung burn.”

  “Should we turn the furniture into heat?” asked Gerlich idly.

  “No,” answered Ayrlyn. “That wouldn’t add two days’ heat, and it would be a waste of all that effort. Besides, the impact on people’s morale…”

  “Just asking.”

  “Try thinking,” muttered Huldran under her breath.

  Nylan barely kept from nodding at that.

  “Anything else?” The marshal looked around the table.

  Gerlich nudged the woman beside him.

  “The roof in the showers leaks,” ventured Selitra.

  “We can’t do much about that until spring,” Nylan admitted.

  “Sometimes the water freezes on the stones. That’s dangerous,” said the lithe guard.

  “Getting up on that roof now would be more dangerous,” pointed out Nylan. “And it’s too cold for the mortar to set. We don’t have roofing tar… maybe by summer.”

  “I hope no one falls.”

  “Is there anything else we can do something about?” asked Ryba. “If not, that’s all. Saryn… you stay. I’d like your estimates on what livestock should be slaughtered and how that might stretch out the feed and fodder.”

  As Nylan stood by the window while Saryn provided rough fodder estimates to Ryba, he listened to Hryessa and Murkassa, talking in low voices by the shelves under the stone staircase.

  “… a third of a place filled with hay and grass, and they would start slaughtering now?”

  “Would you wait until there was no food, and then kill them all, or have them starve?” asked Murkassa. “These women, they are smart, and the Angel thinks ahead, far ahead.”

  Perhaps too far, thought Nylan, turning back to the pair at the table. He hadn’t liked Gerlich’s using Selitra to bring up problems with the bathhouse, either. The engineer forced himself to take several deep slow breaths, then turned his thoughts back to the table, though he remained beside the frosted and snow-covered window.

  “I’d say a sheep now, and another one in an eight-day… two chickens… lay in three days… that leaves eight hens and four half-grown chicks.”

  “Mounts?” asked Ryba.

  “There’s one nag, gelded, barely gets around.”

  “See if Kyseen can make something there. Start with the nag, not the sheep. A sheep can give wool and food. A male that can’t work and can’t stand stud-that’s useless.”

  Nylan half wondered if someday he’d be just like the poor nag. He pursed his lips and waited until Saryn strode out. Then he stepped up as Ryba rose from the chair. “In short,” he said, “things are bad and getting worse, and it’s going to be a long time before the snow melts.”

  “That’s not a problem,” said the marshal. “It’s going to warm up within probably three eight-days. But it’s likely to be almost eight eight-days before there’s any spring growth, even in the woods, that the animals can forage through, or before Ayrlyn can get out and trade for food.”r />
  “Eight eight-days? That’s going to be hard. Really hard.”

  “Harder than that. Much harder.” Ryba walked toward the steps down to the kitchen area.

  LVIII

  THE TALL MAN smooths his velvet tunic before stepping into the tower room.

  “You do honor to receive me, Lady Ellindyja,” offers the tall trader.

  Lady Ellindyja steps back from the door and offers a slight head bow. “I do so appreciate your kindness in coming to see one whose time is past.” She slips toward her padded bench, leaving Lygon to follow.

  As she turns and sits, she picks up the embroidery hoop, and smiles as she finds the needle with the bright red thread.

  “Ah… my lady, you did-”

  “Lygon, you are a trader, and you have dealt fairly with Lornth for nearly a score of years.”

  “That is true.” Lygon runs his hand through the thinning brown hair before settling into the chair opposite Ellindyja. “I would like to believe I have always been fair. Firm, but fair.” He laughs. “Firm they sometimes take for being harsh, but without a profit, there’s no trading.”

  “Just as for lords, without honor, there is no ruling?” asks Ellindyja, her needle still poised above the white fabric of the hoop.

  Lygon shifts his weight on the chair. “I would say that both lords and traders need honor.”

  “What weight does honor add to a trader’s purse?” asks Ellindyja, her tone almost idle.

  “People must believe you will deliver what you promised, that your goods are what you state they are.”

  “Do you tell people what to buy?”

  Lygon frowns before he answers. “Hardly. You cannot sell what people do not want.”

  “I fear that is true in ruling, too,” offers Ellindyja, her eyes dropping to her embroidery as the needle completes a stitch. “The lords of a land have expectations. Surely, you are familiar with this?”

  “I am a trader, lady, not a lord.” Lygon shifts his weight.

  “I know, and you would like to continue trading in Lornth, would you not?” Ellindyja smiles.