Fall of Angels

LXVII

SUNLIGHT POURED THROUGH the narrow open window of the tower. So did a flow of cold air, ruffling the hangings and rattling the thin door that closed off the marshal’s quarters.

“We’re doing all right with the food,” Ryba said. “The snow’s beginning to melt off the rocks, and it won’t be all that long before we can send out Ayrlyn to trade for some things.”

“It is warming up,” admitted Nylan. “I hope we can count on it continuing.” He peered out the narrow opening, squinting against the bright light, and studying the blanket of white-and the few dark rocks on the heights to the west of the tower.

“A storm or two won’t make that much difference,” pointed out the marshal of Westwind. “We’ve still got more than anyone expected.”

“You managed it very well,” Nylan agreed, looking out the open window-the fresh air, cold as it was, was welcome. “Very realistically.”

“‘Realistic,’ that’s a good term.” Ryba shifted her bulk on the lander couch. “Most people aren’t realistic. Especially men.”

Rather than debate that, Nylan asked, “What do you mean by ‘realistic’?”

Ryba gestured toward the window. “The locals can’t really live up here. It’s hard enough for us. Realistically, they should just leave us alone. Over time, we’ll be able to make the roads free of bandits, facilitate trade, and stabilize things. Not to mention providing an outlet for abused women, some of them, anyway, which will make men-some of them-less abusive. If they attack us, a lot of people get killed, more of them than of us.” She sighed. “That’s a realistic, or rational,assessment. But what will happen is different. The local powers-all men-will decide that a bunch of women represent a threat to their way of life, which isn’t that great a life anyway, except for a handful of the well-off, and they’ll force attacks on us. If they win, they wouldn’t have any more than if they hadn’t attacked, not really, and when they lose, and they will, they’re going to lose a whole lot more over time.”

“How would women handle it?” Nylan asked almost idly. “Do you want me to close the window? It’s getting colder in here.”

“You probably should. A lot of the cold air drops onto the lower floors, even with the door closed.” Ryba shifted her weight again. “They say you can never get comfortable in the last part of pregnancy. I believe it. Now … how would women handle it? I can’t speak for all women, but the smart ones would ask what the cost of an action would be and what they’d get. Why fight if you don’t have to?”

“Maybe the smart men do, too, but they don’t have any choice,” suggested Nylan, stepping over to the window and closing it.

“That could be,” admitted Ryba. “But you’re conceding that the smart men are surrounded by other men with power and no brains.”

Nylan shrugged.

“Too many men want to dominate other people, no matter what the cost. Women, I think, look at the cost.”

“Women also manipulate more, I suspect,” Nylan answered. “Men-most of them-aren’t so good with subtleties. So they dislike the manipulative side of women.”

“When it suits them. Manipulation isn’t all bad. If you can get something done quietly and without violence, why not?”

“Because men have this thing about being deceived and being out of control.” Nylan laughed wryly. “They can go out of control when they find out they’ve been tricked or manipulated.”

“Let me get this straight. Men fight and have wars because they can’t manipulate, and then they fight and havewars whenever they feel they are manipulated?”

Nylan frowned. “I don’t like the way you put that.”

“If you have a better way of putting it, go ahead. Personally, I believe women, given the chance, can do a better job, and, here, I’m going to make sure they get a better chance.” Ryba eased herself onto the floor. “I’ll be glad when I can get back to serious arms practice. For now, it’s just exercise.”

“I doubt it’s ever just exercise,” quipped Nylan, following her down to the dimness of the next level and the practice area.

He paused on the steps, noting that among those already practicing with Saryn and a heavy-bellied Istril were Relyn and Fierral. The one-handed man gripped the fir wand in his left hand with enough confidence that Nylan could see he had been practicing for some time.

Ryba picked up a wand. “Istril? Shall we?”

Istril bowed.

Nylan took a deep breath and headed down to the woodworking area and the unfinished cradle. What Ryba had said about men seemed true enough, but that apparent truth bothered him. It bothered him a lot. Were most men really that irrational? Or that blind?