Chaos Balance
LXXXIII
THE CANDLE WAVERED behind the sooty mantle, adding its own infinitesimal heat to that of the dwelling's main room.
Nylan wished he could put it out. Any relief, however little, from the heat would have been welcome. Instead, he finished the water in his mug and refilled it, then looked at Ayrlyn, who nodded. He refilled her mug as well.
Across the table, Fornal took a small sip of the near-spoiling wine and winced, but took another sip before setting the mug down hard enough to shake the wobbly table.
“For an eight-day, they have done nothing. And we have done nothing except watch them,” said the regent. “Nothing. The armsmen are getting restless.”
“So . . . they want to die sooner?” asked Ayrlyn.
Fornal's eyes hardened as he turned toward the redhead.
“The Cyadorans won't attack directly. That means you have to attack them behind their walls. Do you want to guess how many armsmen you'd lose?”
“They just squat there,” protested Fornal. “They'll retaliate,” Nylan predicted, “but not against armsmen. They'll lash out at some hamlet or town.”
“Cowards.”
“What else would you expect?” Nylan asked. “They lost probably a score of troops and a quarter of their mounts.”
Lewa frowned and nervously moistened his lips. Huruc watched Lewa stolidly for a moment before returning his attention to the black-bearded regent.
“A waste. Nearly score-five horses.” Fornal shook his head.
“For what?”
“That will keep a good hundred of their armsmen from mounting up and trying to kill you,” suggested Nylan, not bothering to correct Fornal's exaggeration. They might have killed or maimed eighty mounts-bad enough considering the horses weren't at fault. Then, probably the lancers weren't either, but seldom did the consequences of fighting get visited upon the leaders. Horses, ignorant soldiers, bystanders- they all took the brunt of war. He almost snorted, thinking of poor Lord Sillek-who had cared, and had been one of the few leaders Nylan had ever seen get destroyed. “Your enemy can't fight you when he can't get to you.” Huruc offered a faint and ironic smile. “Why can you not attack again tonight or tomorrow?” asked the regent. “The same way you did before? Perhaps you could aim more fireballs at the soldiers,” Fornal added lazily. “Because the last attack took all the alcohol we'd made, and I won't have enough even for a small attack, for another eight-day.” Nylan's head throbbed, and he added, “It might be a few days earlier. Besides, the Cyadorans will be expecting that. We'll have to try something different.”
“This . . . this kind ... of fighting . . .” Fornal shook his head again. “I am most glad the older holders are distant.”
“It's what you have to do when the other fellow has more equipment and people. You make his strengths work against him. How do you think those horseless lancers feel right now?”
“Angry,” suggested Huruc. “Some will be asking why their leaders cannot protect their mounts. It will get worse, if their armsmen are like those I know.”
“Then they will murder more innocent peasants. Peasants are not supposed to die in war. Armsmen are.” Fornal shook his head. “Leaders are supposed to protect their people.”
Lewa nodded sagely in agreement, his ears wiggling as he did so.
“How much protection will they have if the Cyadorans don't have to worry about you?” asked Nylan gently.
“You . .. you are worse than a white mage, angel.” Fornal took another sip of wine. “The peasants, they are better for my presence. That is why I must suffer your tactics, but I do not have to be happy that I must act like a snake and creep through the grass, or a mountain cat and attack in the night.”
“I wish it were easier,” Nylan said, “but we are doing our best to stop them.”
“No one faults your courage, angels.” Fornal stood. “I, too, wish there were another way. But I cannot see it. Nor can anyone else, and that angers me. And I do not have to like the death of good horses, however. . . useful it may have been.” He took a last gulp of wine-and winced as he set down the mug. “Still hot and sour.”
Without another word, Fornal walked to his chamber and shut the door, hard enough that the table wobbled again.
Slowly, stolidly, Lewa rose and nodded to the three. “We patrol tomorrow.” He left by the open front door, and a moth circled in toward the candle-fluttering around the sooty mantle after the subofficer disappeared into the darkness beyond the front stoop.
“They have no answers,” Huruc said. “Nor do I. I fear many more will die before this ends.” His eyes fell on Ayrlyn. “You are a seer. Is this not so?”
“Many would die no matter what happened,” Ayrlyn said slowly. “All we can do is try to change who dies.”
Again, her words left Nylan cold. Was that all life was- rearranging the names and dates of death, because everyone died, and it was only a question of where and when?
“You offer cold comfort, angel.” Huruc stood. “Yet your words ring true, and I would have truth over comfort. Comfort has all too often killed armsmen before their time.” He nodded and was gone.
For a moment, neither Nylan nor Ayrlyn spoke. Then Nylan blew out the candle, and they sat in the darkness. “Nobody likes seers or truth,” he finally murmured. “I'm not even sure we're either, just the next best thing.”
“Is what we're doing right?”
“I hope so.” At least that answer didn't start the headaches that followed what he recognized as deception or self-deception.
“You've changed. So have I.”
“Everyone changes,” he temporized.
“You offer what you think is truth more often. On the Roof of the World, you kept that to yourself.”
“Ryba would have sliced me in two,” he protested.
“No. I don't think so. You risk having Fornal or Gethen or whoever send an army against you now.”
“So do you, even more than me. And it costs you in other ways. You don't pick up the lutar anymore. That bothers me.”
“It bothers me, too, but that will pass.”
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure. I know, and that's scary sometimes.”
Nylan swallowed.
“It's not like Ryba, with visions, just a solid feeling,” she explained.
“That's scary to me.” He forced a half-laugh.
“Scary or not,” she yawned, “I'm tired.”
Nylan stood and extended a hand, then led the way to their room-hot and still despite the open shutters on the small window.
Weryl lay sprawled on his back on his small pallet, his arms wide, a faint smile on his open mouth. Sylenia snored softly, her back to the door.
“Sylenia is worried about Tregvo,” Ayrlyn whispered as she leaned closer to Nylan. “Who?”
“That armsman who keeps making advances. She told me that she feared none of us would return.”
Now they had to worry about the nursemaid they'd brought so that they wouldn't have to worry as much about Weryl.
Darkness, if it weren't one thing, it was another. But that seemed to be life. Nylan took a deep breath, then slipped off his damp shirt, trying to relax in the hot still air of the room.
Ayrlyn slipped her arms around his waist, her lips brushing his neck for a moment before she released him. He could feel the dampness of her shirt. What were they doing in the sweatbox that was southern Lornth?
He grinned to himself for a moment.
“You're smiling,” whispered Ayrlyn.
“Just thinking that everything that got us here seemed to be a good idea at the time. Probably be my epitaph-'He thought it was a good idea at the time.' ”
Ayrlyn kissed him again, and it was all almost worth it. Nylan smiled inside.