Fall of Angels

LIX

IN THE CORNER of the woodworking area of the tower, Nylan slowly traced the circular cuts he needed to make in the scrap of poorly tanned leather. That way, he got longer thongs and could use the leftover scraps. Even so, his makeshift net was turning into a patchwork of cord, leather thongs, and synthcord.

He glanced at the pieces of the unfinished cradle, then at the rocking-chair sections. Both needed more smoothing and crafting before he glued and joined them, but his hands cramped after much time with the smoothing blade-and Siret and Ellysia had a more urgent need to finish their cradles.

From the other side of the tower came the smell of meat-horse meat, cooking slowly in the big oven. There was also the smell of bread, with the hint of bitterness that Huldran and others had noted.

Nylan found himself licking his lips-over horse meat?It had been a long winter. For a few days, they’d eat well. And then they wouldn’t, not for another eight-day or so. He tried not to dwell on the fate of the poor swaybacked and tired gelding and instead looked at the fragile-appearing net.

“How do you catch the snow hares?” Nylan had asked Murkassa.

“Weaving I know, and cows, and sheep, but not hunting. Men hunt, Ser Mage.” The round-faced girl had shrugged, as if Nylan should have known such. Then she had added, “It is too cold to hunt here, except for you angels, and I must stay behind the walls.”

Hryessa had been more helpful. “My uncle, he once showed me his snares and his nets …”

After listening to descriptions of snares and setting them, Nylan had decided nets were more practical in the deep snow of the Roof of the World.

Then, he hadn’t considered the sheer tediousness of making the damned net. With a slow deep breath, he started cutting, trying to keep his hands steady, knowing that, as in everything, he really couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, to waste any of the leather.

He rubbed his nose, trying to hold back a sneeze. With the dust left over from building and the sawdust from woodworking and the soot from the furnace, he wondered why they weren’t all sneezing.

Kkhhhchew! Kkhchew! The engineer rubbed his sore nose again.

“It’s hard to keep from sneezing,” said Siret from where she smoothed the sideboards of her cradle. “I hate it when I sneeze, especially now.”

Behind and around Nylan, guards worked on their own projects. Ayrlyn was attempting a crude lutar, using fibercabling from one of the landers as strings. Surprisingly Hryessa also worked on a lutar.

As he knelt on the slate floor, Nylan caught a glimpse of boots nearing.

“It’s getting presentable in size,” said Ryba.

Nylan stood. “The net? Yes. Whether it will work is anotherquestion, but I thought I’d try for another niche in the ecological framework.”

The marshal laughed. “When you talk about hunting, you sometimes still sound like an engineer.”

“I probably always will.”

“What else are you working on?” Her eyes went to the wood behind Nylan.

He gestured, glad that the cradle’s headboard was turned so the carving was to the wall. While he couldn’t conceal the cradle itself, he wanted some aspect of it to be a surprise.

“The cradle for Dyliess. A chair.” He laughed. “Once the cradle’s done, I’ll have to start on a bed. Children grow so fast. But that will have to wait a bit, until the snows melt, and until we’re in better shape.”

“At times, I feel like life here is always a struggle between waiting and acting, and that I’ll choose the wrong thing to wait on because we don’t have enough of anything.” Ryba forced a laugh. “I suppose that’s just life anywhere.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Checking on what everyone else is doing. Then I’ll start pulling out guards for blade practice.”

“You’re still doing that on the fifth level? It’s dark up there.”

“It works fine. They really have to concentrate. Besides, using a blade has to be as much or more by feel as by sight.” Ryba cleared her throat. “Nylan … you need practice with a blade. A lot more practice.”

“Another vision?” he answered glumly.

“Another vision.” There was nothing light in her voice.

“All right. After I get a little more done on the net.”

“I’ll be a while. I need to talk to Kyseen.” Ryba’s eyes passed over the back side of the cradle’s headboard without pausing as she turned and crossed the space toward the kitchen.

Nylan’s ears followed her progress.

“ … not a warm bone in her body …”

“ … like the queen of the world …”

“ … even cold with the engineer … show him some warmth …”

“ … she’s not kept in a corner, caged up, like me,” added Murkassa. “She can walk the snows.”

Istril, almost like a guardian, touched the Gallosian woman’s arm. “It is getting warmer. It won’t be that long.”

“ … too long, already. The stones of the walls will fall in upon me …”

All the guards were getting worn and frazzled. Nylan hoped that Istril were right, that it wouldn’t be that long, but he wasn’t counting on it. That was why he worked on the net.

“ … never loses sight of the weapons, does the marshal?” asked Siret, not looking up from her continued smoothing of the sideboards of the cradle she knelt beside.

“No, and she’s right, even if I dread getting bruised and banged up.”

“You do better than most, ser.”

“You’re kind, Siret, but she makes me feel like an awkward child, even when she’s carrying extra weight and is off balance.”

“What about me, ser?” asked the visibly pregnant guard.

“You’re still sparring?”

“She says that the men around here could give a damn if I’m with child. Or have a babe in arms.”

“She’s probably right about that, too,” Nylan answered slowly.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

They both took deep breaths, almost simultaneously. Then Siret grinned, and Nylan found himself doing the same.