Fall of Angels

XLI

THE DULL RUMBLE of thunder echoed across the Roof of the World, and a line of rain slashed at Tower Black. Water dribbled through the closed shutters of the great room, but not through the armaglass windows. The coals left from the morning fire imparted a residual warmth … and some smokiness, because Nylan had added the hearth after the walls had been started.

Nylan sipped the cup of leaf tea slowly, lingering past breakfast. With his head still aching two days after the laser had failed, he wondered if the bows had killed the powerheads earlier than necessary. He massaged his neck again and looked around the empty room. The guards had left the table and were working, either in the lower level of the tower, or in the stables, out of the cold rain that had fallen for two days straight.

The inside tower drains were working, at least, and water seemed to be filling the outfall, from what he could see out the front door. Nylan smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of the uncompleted bathhouse and unfinished outside conduits to the cistern. He should check those drains before long.

He wished he’d been able to roof and finish the bathhouse before the rain. The heating stove in the bathhouse was only half-built. With the laser gone, he’d have to mortar the plates for the water heater in place, but he couldn’t do any morebrick and stonework until the rain stopped, and the clouds outside were so dark they were almost black.

Nylan took another sip of the hot tea that tasted almost undrinkable, but seemed to help relax rigid muscles and relieve the worst of the headache, and massaged the back of his neck with his left hand once again.

The main tower door opened and then closed. A single figure stomped wet boots, then headed toward the tables.

“You look like manure.” Ayrlyn slid onto the bench across the table from the engineer. Her short red hair was wet and plastered to her skull, and rivulets of water ran down her cheeks.

“Manure feels better. You look wet.”

“The joys of trying to locate logs and timber before the weather turns really nasty. We need more deadwood for the furnace and kitchen stove. It cuts easier.” Ayrlyn wiped the water off her face, but another rivulet coursed down her left cheek right afterward. “There’s a lot of internal work this place needs. That means green wood, and it’s a mess to cut.”

Nylan’s eyes rose to the blank stone walls, the unfinished shelves, and the lack of interior walls. “You could say that.”

Ayrlyn studied Nylan. “You look like a worn-out engineer.”

“You look like a soaked and worn-out artisan and singer.” Nylan paused. “I never did tell you how effective that Westwind guard song was.”

“It’s a terrible song,” protested Ayrlyn.

“That’s why it’s effective. Every anthem ever written is terrible, either melodically or because it’s lyrically tearjerking.”

“You’ve made a study?”

“No … but the Sybran anthem … you know, ‘the winters of time … the banners of ice …’ Or how about the Svennish hymn to the mother? Or ‘The Swift Ships of Heaven’? Have you really listened to the words?”

“Enough.” Ayrlyn laughed. “Enough.”

“All right … but what about the Akalyrr ‘Song to the Father’?”

“Enough! I said enough.”

Nylan sipped his tea, trying not to grimace.

“That good?”

“It helps. That’s all I can say about it.” He set the mug down again. “Have you learned anything new from our friend Relyn?”

Ayrlyn glanced toward the end of the great room. “He’s learning how to use that hand, but he still feels crippled-and angry. He’s confused, too, because he owes allegiance to this Lord Sillek, yet he feels he was tricked. He also doesn’t think much of Narliat … or of Gerlich, for that matter.”

“He has good taste,” Nylan said. “Has he told you anything new that we didn’t know about this planet?”

“It’s hard to say.” Ayrlyn frowned. “He pretty much agrees with Narliat’s story about the landing of the demons, and so does Hryessa. She’s taken to Saryn, by the way. She sees Ryba as a goddess, and she can’t relate to a goddess. Saryn’s merely a mighty warrior. Hryessa also tells the demon story a little differently-the demons are the patrons of men and of the wizards, and white is the color of destruction here.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Nylan. “The demons of light are white.”

“In a lot of cultures, especially low-tech ones, white means purity. It was in ancient Svenn, and in Etalyarr. Here, darkness is pure, and there’s not much emphasis on cleanliness. All wizards are men, obviously.”

“Wonderful.” Nylan glanced toward the door and the stairs, but the great room remained empty save for them.

“Black wizards are rare. That’s why Hryessa will look at you.”

“Because I’m rare?”

“Because they all think you’re a black wizard.” Ayrlyn smiled.

“How would they know? I don’t even know why what I do works.”

“For Relyn, Hryessa, and Narliat, it’s simple. White wizards throw firebolts without using tools or weapons. White wizards destroy people and things. Black wizards buildthings, like towers, tools, and weapons. Or heal. You build. So you’re a black wizard.” Ayrlyn shrugged. “You also have silver hair, and none of the white wizards do. They aren’t sure about black wizards, since there aren’t many.”

“If I have to be one or the other, I guess it’s better to be black.” Nylan took another sip of the tea, trying not to make a face, then set the earthenware mug-a recent addition from Rienadre and the brick kiln-down and massaged his neck. “Your healing makes you a black wizard, too.”

“I don’t know that I’m any wizard …”

“You’re a healer.”

“A minor black wizard, then. Very minor.”

Ayrlyn offered a quick smile, then continued. “Relyn seems to think that this Lord Sillek has his hands full. His western neighbor, a charming fellow named Ildyrom, has been trying to take over some grasslands. Young Sillek also is being choked by his northern neighbor. Relyn doesn’t understand the government there, but it sounds like a form of council run by big traders. They hold the river near the Northern Ocean and all the ports.”

“So he’s got trouble on all sides?”

“According to Relyn. Narliat says it’s not that bad, and all Hryessa knows is that food has gotten scarcer. Oh, Relyn also says that no one likes fighting the westerners-Jeranyi, I think they’re catied-because the women fight alongside the men.”

“Rather chauvinistic culture.”

“I’d say that’s the rule, mostly. It’s a warm planet.”

“What does warmth have to do with male chauvinism?”

“It doesn’t necessarily, except that women handle extreme cold better than men. Look at Heaven, where women have more than half the government. Some anthropologists theorize that cold tolerance is the whole basis of the Sybran culture.” Ayrlyn spread her hands.

“Do these Jeranyi come from a cold culture? I didn’t recall any mountains there.”

“No. Maybe there’s some other reason.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s given me a lot about local customs, trade, that sort of thing, but it’s background. Helpful, but background. The other thing is that this Lord Sillek doesn’t have an heir, or any surviving siblings. That bothered Relyn.”

“Probably civil war if Sillek dies,” mused Nylan. “Two out of three says this Sillek’s definitely got his hands full.” He looked down at the rapidly coolirtg tea and wondered if he could force himself to drink any more.

“That’s my reading, but we’re only going on what we’ve seen, and that isn’t much, plus the in-depth reports of three locals, and the offhand remarks of traders.” Ayrlyn blotted a thin line of water from her neck below her right ear. “Rain looks like it’s never going to stop.”

“It’s probably snowing on the mountaintops.” Nylan looked toward the windows, then swung his feet over the bench. “Time to check the drains.”

“Drains?”

“The little details, like keeping the tower from being washed away. The things that get forgotten in the sagas of heroes and heroic deeds.”

“Still bitter about that?”

“A little.” He snorted. “But it’s time to go get wet.”

“I’m going to dry off some before I go back out there.”

“I haven’t been out, and I should have been.” The engineer stood and carried the mug down to the north door of the tower, where he washed it in the one bucket, rinsed it in the other, and racked it in the peeled-limb framework leaned against the stone wall. The second slot in the upper left was his.

Then he closed his jacket and eased open the north door, which not only squeaked, but scraped against the floor stones. A blast of rain slewed across him, but he hurried out and closed the door behind him.

The water resistance of his ship jacket wouldn’t last long, but he wanted to check the drains in the uncompleted bathhouse. The last thing he wanted was the rain undercutting the walls or their foundation.

A roll of thunder followed another line of what seemedsolid water that hit Nylan just as he ducked through the half-covered archway and into the unroofed bathhouse.

“Oh … frig!”

The water was already ankle-deep. Nylan plodded forward toward the first drain where he could sense some drainage. He pushed back his sleeves and thrust his hands into the water, ignoring the chill, feeling around, and finally finding a chunk of brick. He pulled that out of the mud, only to have something sharp scrape the back of his left hand. He heaved the fragment over the wall and bent down again, fishing through the muddy water and coming up with a long shard of slate. He threw that outside the walls and looked at his hand.

The rain washed away the blood from the thin cut as fast as it welled out, but the cut was only skin-deep. The water started to swirl down the drain, then stopped. The engineer sighed and went fishing again, this time coming up with a round stone just the right size to plug the drain.

He watched the water swirl and start to drain, and again stop.

After repeating the process nearly a dozen times, the drain seemed to be flowing freely, and he slogged through the instep-deep water to the other end of the bathhouse and the second drain-also plugged.

After four tries, he got the second drain running freely, but the first drain had become plugged again-with several more stone fragments.

All in all, Nylan slogged back and forth between the two drains nearly half a dozen times before the area inside the walls was drained, although several depressions remained as ankle-deep puddles.

Then he circled the tower, checking the rock-lined drainage way on the lower east side of the tower. While the drainage way was a narrow rushing stream that seemed to divert the deluge from the tower foundations, beyond the stones the water had already dug a trench knee-deep through the lowest point of the makeshift road to the ridge.

Nylan shook his head. They would need a stone culvert,or something, to keep the road from being washed out with every heavy rainstorm. He took a deep breath and headed back to the north door of the tower, his shipboots squishing with every step.

Water-resistant or not, Nylan’s jacket was soaked, as was everything else. But the drains were working, and the water from all around the tower was flowing freely into the outfall he had designed. Beyond the outfall … He just winced.

His head ached again; his neck and shoulder muscles were tight, and his eyes burned, and he trudged back to the north side of the tower. He turned the heavy lever, and the latch plate lifted. A strong push and the door swung open, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through sideways, before it stuck.

Nylan edged inside and checked the door. The hinge pins were solid, and the strap plates hadn’t moved. He bent down, then nodded. With the moisture, the wood had swelled, and perhaps the latch end had drooped some with the extra weight and usage. Whatever the exact reason, the end of the door was wedged on the stone.

He grunted, and half lifted, half shoved the door back closed.

After closing the door, he took off his jacket and wrung it dry, letting the water spill on the stones by the door. Then he stripped off his boots and the shipsuit and repeated the process with the shipsuit, ignoring the fact that he was standing near-nude by the door. He turned his boots upside down and poured out the remaining water.

As he set them down, the north door eased open, then stuck once more.

Siret squeezed inside, barely able to maneuver her thickening midsection through the narrow opening. Her deep green eyes fixed on him. “Ser?”

“Trying to wring out the worst of the water,” he explained.

Siret said nothing, her eyes still on him as he redonned the shipsuit, and he could feel himself blushing. Once he had the damp suit back on, he shoved the door shut, barefoot, his feet sliding on the cold damp stones.

“I’m sorry, ser,” Siret finally said. “I should have helped, but I … I just … I don’t know what happened.” Her eyes did not meet Nylan’s.

“That’s all right.” He slowly pulled on the damp boots.

“Thank you.” Siret turned and headed toward the great room on the other side of the central stairs.

Nylan followed. Even before he was two steps into the great room, he felt the heat, from the hearth, more welcome than the odor of fresh bread coming from the grass baskets. He spread his damp jacket on the shelves beneath the stairs, then walked toward the warmth, glad that his seat was close to the hearth.

The two tables were nearly filled with damp marines. Narliat’s dry leathers stood out, as did Kadran’s and Kyseen’s. The dryness of the cooks’ clothing, Nylan could understand, but Narliat sat beside Gerlich, who looked like a drowned rodent, with his damp chestnut beard and longer hair plastered against the back of his neck. Relyn, across the table, was soaked as well, but he offered a smile.

Nylan returned Relyn’s smile and nodded when he passed Gerlich, and then eased into the seat at the end of the bench closest to the hearth.

Saryn sat on the end of the table with her back to the windows, across from Nylan. Between her and Ayrlyn sat Hryessa in dampened leathers. Relyn sat to Ayrlyn’s left.

“The fire feels good,” Nylan observed.

“Since everyone’s soaked, it seemed like a good idea.” Ryba smiled faintly. “Our resident healer and communicator pointed that out.”

“The damp is worse for health than snow would be. So I suggested the fire,” Ayrlyn said.

Nylan turned on the bench so that the heat from the hearth would warm his back. While the shipsuits were thin, the synthetics did dry quickly.

The big pot in the center of the table held a soupy stew, to be poured over the bread. Saryn passed him a basket of bread, and he broke off a chunk, then stood and ladled stew over it.

“How did you get soaked?” Ryba asked.

“Cleaning out the drains in the bathhouse so that the foundations wouldn’t get washed away. I also checked the other drains and the outfalls.”

“It’s snowing on the higher peaks,” said Ayrlyn. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow here within an eight-day or two.”

“I hope it holds off. We’ve still got a bunch to do to get the bathhouse finished.”

“Will it take that long?” asked Ryba.

“Long enough,” said Nylan, pouring the hot root and bark tea into his mug where, when the hot liquid hit the clay, the mug cracked in two, as if a magical knife had cloven it, and the tea poured across the table.

“Friggin’ …!” Nylan nearly knocked over the bench as he lurched sideways to avoid the boiling liquid that had started to drip off the table onto his legs. As he stood beside Ryba’s chair, he looked around for something to wipe away the tea.

“Ser!” Kyseen stood and tossed a bunched rag toward Nylan, which opened and dropped onto Hryessa’s bread and stew.

Hryessa’s mouth opened.

“These things happen,” said Ayrlyn calmly, as she reclaimed the rag and spread it on the tea puddle.

Hryessa looked at her stew and bread, then at Ayrlyn.

Saryn grinned, shaking her head. “It doesn’t look like it’s been your morning, Engineer.”

Nylan reached forward and gathered the tea- and stew-soaked rag, carefully wringing the liquid into the inside corner of the hearth where the heat would evaporate it. Then he mopped up more of the tea and repeated the process.

In time he sat back down, glad at least that the split mug hadn’t poured bark tea over his bread and stew.

“Here’s another mug, ser.” Rienadre set one in front of him and retreated. “Some of them don’t fire right. I’m sorry.”

“Would you pour the tea?” Nylan asked. “I haven’t had much luck.”

Rienadre took the kettle and poured. The mug held.

“Thank you.” Nylan took a small sip, marveling that the tea wasn’t bad. That alone told him how bedraggled he felt. He took a mouthful of bread and stew, then another, trying to ignore the bitterness of the tubers and onions. From the corner of his eye as he set down his mug, Nylan could see Gerlich bending toward Narliat.

“Finishing the bathhouse with hand tools is going to take time-and dryer weather,” the engineer added.

“Cannot a mage do anything?” asked Narliat. “You have builded a tower that reaches to the skies, and you cannot make a few channels in stone?”

Put that way … Nylan frowned. “Perhaps I can, after all.” The real question was the timing of Narliat’s question. Was Gerlich thinking up the nasty questions for the armsman, or was Narliat that disruptive on his own?

“You are a great mage, and great mages do great things,” Narliat added.

Nylan wanted to strangle him for the setup. Instead, he turned to the armsman. “I have never claimed to be a great mage. But I have done my best to accomplish what needed to be done, and I will continue to do so.” His eyes locked on Narliat until the other looked away.

Then he took another chunk of bread and ate more of the stew, trying to ignore the gamy taste Kyseen had not been able to mask with salt and strong onions.