XCII
HISSL GLANCES AT the candle, then at the darkness outside. A lamp in the barracks courtyard casts a faint glow across the wooden steps that lead up to his quarters.
He looks at the beaker of wine on the table, already beginning to turn, for all that he has had the bottle less than a day, then back out through the window. Beyond the courtyard, on the far side, the windows of Koric's room are dark.
"Out with his woman," snorts Hissl. "He has his power and his woman, and Terek rides beside Sillek, and I... I wait for an attack that will never come, not while I am here. Not while Ildyrom knows I am here."
He fills the beaker from the bottle and drinks fully half what he has poured, wincing as he swallows.
A sense of unease fills him, and he looks at the flat glass on the table. Leaving the beaker half-full, he walks to the doorway.
A tall figure slips up the stairs, gracefully, yet not furtively, followed by a second smaller figure.
Hissl touches his dagger, but does not draw it as the others approach. Instead, he opens the door and waits.
The man who stops in the doorway fills it, and towers over both Hissl and the sturdy armsman in the cloak behind the stranger.
"I understand you bid me visit you, Wizard?" asks the visitor in accented speech. The tall man wears only a sleeveless tunic in the cool evening, yet his brow is damp, and his face appears flushed in the indirect light.
Hissl nods, "I did. What would a warrior, a true warrior from the Roof of the World, wish from a poor wizard?"
"To make our fortune. To keep the world from being changed. To provide you with fame and position." The tall stranger glances toward the table and the flat glass and the beaker. "Might we come in?"
"Of course." Hissl steps back and offers a deep and ironic bow; "My humble quarters await you."
The tall man takes the high stool and leans forward, waiting until Hissl seats himself. The cloaked armsman stands by the door.
"Why have you taken so long?" Hissl begins.
"I beg your pardon, Ser Wizard, but it has taken somewhat longer to accomplish the necessary."
"The necessary?"
The stranger smiles coldly. "To travel here. To raise coins. Such coins, I understand, are necessary. Gold, after all, is the mother's milk of ambition, is it not?"
"I had not heard it expressed quite that way," admits Hissl.
"You wish position and power. I offer that. With your help, we can take Westwind-"
"Westwind?"
"The Roof of the World. Once we take Westwind, the Lord of Lornth, I understand, will be most suitably grateful." The tall man wipes his forehead again.
"That is what has been said," offers Hissl cautiously.
"To take Westwind will require four things: good tactics based on knowledge, an adequate number of armsmen, a good leader, and a very good wizard." The stranger looks straight at Hissl. "You are said to be a very good wizard. You also must have some coins and contacts which would supplement our coins in hiring armsmen."
"Many would claim what you propose is impossible. Many have already died." Hissl's eyes stray to the blank glass on the table and then to the half beaker of wine.
"Hardly impossible. Difficult, perhaps, but nothing is impossible."
Hissl raises his eyebrows.
"When we take Westwind, you may have the lands and title that Lord Sillek offers. I will take Westwind, and offer immediate and faithful homage to His Lordship. I think he will accept it," the stranger says.
"How can I trust you?" asks Hissl bluntly. "You ask me to risk much. Why would you offer me the leopard's share?"
The stranger spreads his hands, then wipes his forehead. "Look. You wear warm clothes. Na- The armsman wears a cloak. I wear as little as I can, and I am hot. Given any choice, I would never leave the high peaks. I would die during a long hot summer in the lowlands." The man shudders. "I could not take lowlands if they were forced upon me."
"How would I know this?"
The stranger glances at the glass and then at Hissl. "You know."
"Why do you come to me, and not to Lord Sillek?"
"Because that would place him, and me, in a most difficult position. He cannot deal directly with a man associated with the angels, but he could accept the return of his lands, especially if that return is accomplished with the help of one of his loyal wizards.
"To some degree, I am gambling that he will accept a man who is a stranger paying homage to him. But he has said that he will reward the man who overthrows the evil angels and returns the lands to Lornth. Because you are a loyal subject and of Lornth, he will certainly reward you." The stranger smiles again.
"How, exactly, would you accomplish this?"
"By wizardry, and by unexpected attacks." The stranger clears his throat. "Are you interested?"
After a time, Hissl nods. "Yes."
XCIII
NYLAN BRUSHED AWAY a persistent fly, the kind that hurt when it bit, as he had learned the painful way, before pulling the alloy from the forge. He blinked as he turned. Although (he brick forge now almost reached the roof line, it did not block the direct afternoon sun that beamed down on his dented, and oft-reflattened and -smoothed makeshift anvil.
Huldran took the tongs. Nylan lifted the hammer once more, ready to hot-cut, wondering if Fierral's endless appetite for arrowheads would ever be sated. Then, again, did any military commander ever have enough ammunition?
He laughed as he finished the blank.
"Ser?" asked Huldran.
"Military commanders never have enough ammunition."
"If you say so, ser." Huldran looked puzzled.
Nylan lifted the hammer again, then paused as he glimpsed a motion from the corner of his eye. He turned his head. Ydrall, her dark hair now cut short, ran up the road. Nylan lowered the hammer, then raised it again and kept cutting until the new guard actually entered the smithy.
"Ser?" gasped Ydrall.
Nylan set the hammer aside, and brushed back another of the scattered but persistent flies. "Yes?"
"Istril and Jaseen, they said you should come," she said in Old Anglorat. "Ellysia is sick, very sick, and the other healer, she is off trading."
"What's that about Ellysia?" asked Huldran.
"She's sick. Very sick." Nylan set down the hammer. "It's your turn to do what you can all alone. I'll send someone up to hold the tongs for you."
Nylan hurried, not quite running, first to the bathhouse to rid himself of dirt and grime, and then back into the tower. Still damp, the engineer returned to the tower through the connecting south door.
Ryba, carrying Dyliess in the chest pack, met him at the foot of the stairs. "They called you? Good. She's really sick."
"I'll do what I can. Ayrlyn would be better." He paused. "Could you arrange to send a guard up to help Huldran while I'm gone? Cessya, Weindre, someone like that? She's trying to keep forging arrowheads."
"I'll take care of it."
"Thank you." Nylan hurried up the stairs.
Jaseen sat beside the bed. On her bed, a dozen cubits away, Istril held Dephnay and rocked the cradle holding Weryl. Ellysia's face was blotched and pale, and Nylan could feel the heat welling off her face. Her entire body was drenched, both in sweat and in an unseen ugly whiteness.
"What is this?" muttered Nylan to Jaseen.
"Massive systemic infection, I'd guess. We don't have any diagnostics, or those fancy nanotech probes."
"Please .. . help me, ser." Ellysia's voice was less than a whisper.
Nylan took a deep breath, sending his perceptions out, trying to find a nexus, a center for the infection, but there seemed to be none. The ugly whiteness oozed from everywhere within the stricken woman.
He wished he knew more about medicine and bodily systems. After a brief respite, he eased his senses out again, this time concentrating on her circulatory system, trying to strengthen the minuscule order he found there.
Had a touch of color returned to Ellysia's face? Was there a trace less of the whiteness around her?
"Still... so hot... do something .. .just look at me ..."
"He is doing something, Ellysia. Healers do it with their thoughts," insisted Istril from behind Nylan.
Even as he watched, Nylan could sense the faint order he had instilled crumble. Again, he forced himself out, to try to strengthen the ailing woman's internal order, to build dikes against the infection.
His own eyes blurred, and his head ached, and he looked blindly at the floor, seeing nothing. His knees started to shake, and he sank down on the planks beside the lander couch, trying to keep the room from swimming around him, even as he knew that what he'd done hadn't been enough.
He reached out, but it was too late. He slumped into darkness.
Someone was applying a damp cloth to his forehead when he woke. His eyes fixed on the silver hair.
"Ellysia?" he asked.
Istril shook her head. "She was better, but it didn't last."
Nylan started to shake his head, then stopped. Even that slight motion hurt too much.
Istril blotted his forehead again. "You tried to do too much. Even I could feel it."
". . . wasn't enough .. ."
"You need to drink something." She held a mug.
Nylan struggled up into a half-sitting position. His head felt like his own hammers were pounding on it. The triangle rang for the evening meal, but he concentrated on sipping the water. By the time he had finished the mug, the hammering inside his skull had diminished to a dull thumping.
"Try this." Istril handed him a slice of bread.
Nylan could hear the whimpering from the cradle. "Take care of Weryl. I'm feeling better." He paused. "Dephnay?"
"Siret has her now. Over there."
As he chewed the thin slice of bread, Nylan's eyes jumped to the next alcove, where Siret held two infants.
Istril eased Weryl out of the cradle and to her breast. The whimpering was replaced with sucking, interspersed with a noise sounding to Nylan suspiciously like a slurp.
"He likes to eat," said the smith.
"I've started giving him a few mushy things. The solids seem to help him sleep a little longer, but he still nurses a lot." Istril looked down at her son. "Little pig."
Some of Nylan's dizziness passed, and he eased himself into a sitting position. He noticed that Ellysia's bed was vacant.
"Jaseen moved her. Said she wanted her in the ground as quick as possible."
Nylan nodded.
"I don't understand," Istril said. "No one got sick all winter, and it was cold, and we didn't really have enough to eat. Why now?"
"Because it was cold," Nylan tried to explain, as much for himself as for Istril. "It was too cold for mosquitoes, flies, and insects that carry diseases. We didn't see any traders. Now, after the winter, there are a lot more ways to catch things, and Ellysia was just worn out."
He didn't add that not having two healers around probably hadn't helped either, but with the raging infection that had surged through Ellysia, he wondered whether even both he and Ayrlyn would have been able to do anything.
His head turned toward the dark-haired baby girl Siret held. "She'll have to be fed. I don't suppose she's had much solid food."
"I can nurse Dephnay some," volunteered Istril.
"I can, too," added Siret.
"I suppose I can make it down to eat." Nylan eased himself erect.
"Are you sure?" asked Istril.
"I'll manage." Since Nylan finally could move without his head spinning, he tottered down the single flight of stairs and into the great room, followed by Siret and Istril, and the three infants.
"... silver-haired bunch ..."
"... they look after him."
"Engineer. . . looks like shit..."
"... nearly killed himself... they said . .."
". . . more dead than alive . . ." murmured Selitra.
"I'm not that bad," he rasped back. "I can still hear whispers."
Selitra blushed.
Nylan continued past the lower tables and slid into his place. He immediately broke off a chunk of bread and began to chew.
"You're still pale." Ryba patted Dyliess in the carrypack on her chest.
Huldran, beside Nylan, nodded.
"Healing's harder than smithing or stone masonry," Nylan grunted after chewing the first mouthful of bread.
"Ooo . . ." interjected Dyliess.
"I'm glad you agree," said Nylan. "A daughter's opinion is important."
"Oooo . .."
Huldran grinned.
Nylan finally took a chunk of the sauce-covered unknown meat. He barely had to use his knife. The brown sauce wasn't the burning dish that Blynnal called burkha, but a cinnamon mint, hot but not too hot. It also concealed whatever the meat was, and that, Nylan decided, was fine with him. He broke off another chunk of bread and dipped the end into the sauce, then took a sip of the cool tealike drink that was also new, and less bitter than the hot bark-and-root tea of winter had been.
When Nylan stopped and took a last sip of the cool tea, Ryba slipped Dyliess out of the carrypack.
"Would you hold her for a bit?"
Nylan extended his arms.
"Oooooo . . ."
"I'm glad you agree, daughter."
Ryba stood, looking imperious. Nylan cradled Dyliess in his right arm.
"Ellysia died," Ryba began. "You all know that. You may be the best blades on the face of the world, but that doesn't make you immune to disease. The engineer built a bathhouse. I expect you all to use it-regularly. Cleanliness is about the only defense against disease we have left." The marshal turned to Blynnal and Kadran. "Everything you prepare is to be washed, cooked at least to a dull pink if it's meat, and all the way through if it's one of those wild pigs or a chicken. The same with eggs."
". . . tastes .. . terrible . . ." came a murmur.
"Do you want to have good-tasting food and die?" snapped Ryba. "There was a reason for all those primitive dietary laws we've abandoned. Just as there's a reason why the engineer nearly killed himself to build that bathhouse." Her eyes raked the group, and the silence was absolute, except for a faint infant whimper from the second table.
Nylan patted Dyliess on the back and chewed another chunk of bread as Ryba took her seat.