“What?”
“I’ll use the laser to glaze it. That will make cleaning it easy.”
“What?” repeated Ryba.
“The water reservoir, cistern, whatever you want to call it. I’d like it to be on the second level in the center, but I don’t know if I can work that. I still haven’t quite figured out piping or a reservoir near the head of the spring. We’ll run hidden piping, like a siphon, so we can have some continuous water flow in winter or if we get besieged …”
“You are a pessimist.”
“A realist.”
“Probably,” she admitted. “What if the laser goes?”
“There are two spare powerheads and a spare cable. I can use the weapons head, if I have to, but the power loss is enormous, and that might not work at all. If it goes now, we doit the hard way, and not nearly so well, and people die. If it lasts into winter, then I should have the basics done.”
“Dreamer.”
Nylan grinned ruefully.
“Go get something to eat.” Ryba motioned to Istril, who had edged down the rocks, and who hurried up in response to Ryba’s preemptory gesture. “Istril … would you watch this equipment while the engineer eats? Don’t touch it, and don’t let anyone else, either.” Ryba pointed to the blade that Nylan had used as a guide. “Use that if you have to.”
“Yes, ser.” Istril’s eyes flickered to the black blade on the stone. “You made … that … ser?”
“I tried,” conceded Nylan.
“It’s beautiful … sometime … could you forge me one?”
“Istril should get one of the first ones.”
Nylan sighed and nodded at the slight silver-haired marine. “It’s cool now. Pick it up and see if it’s half as good as it looks.”
“You mean it?”
Ryba and Nylan nodded.
Istril touched the hilt-designed to be wrapped in leather-and slowly lifted the blade. She stepped back and lowered it, then smiled.
“Is it tough enough?” Nylan asked. “Bend it or something.”
Ryba lifted her blade. “Just blade to blade.”
Nylan watched as they fenced, the silvery metal of the Sybran blade glittering against the black of his.
After a time, they both lowered their weapons, and Ryba wiped her forehead. A moment later, so did Istril.
“I think it might be better than mine,” said Ryba, “at least in blade work. It might not be balanced right for throwing.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Istril.
Ryba looked at Nylan.
He nodded at Istril. “It’s not perfect, but you may have it. The hilt needs to be wrapped.”
“It’s too good for me.”
“Then you’ll have to get better for it,” said Ryba. “In returnfor the blade, you’ll have to teach the engineer how to use one.”
“Can I start now?”
“After I eat, and only for a little,” said Nylan. “We’ve still got a tower to build.”
XVII
“I WAS NOT exactly amused by your reference to the chief wizard the other day before Lord Sillek,” begins Terek.
“You are the chief wizard,” points out Hissl calmly, “and I only spoke the truth. To have done otherwise …” He shrugs.
“There is truth, and there is truth,” says Terek slowly, shifting his bulk as he ambles toward the table with the screeing glass upon it.
Hissl remains silent.
“Let us see if you can find anything which may impinge upon these … fallen angels. For if something does not, sooner or later we will be called to help avenge Lord Nessil’s death.”
“The longer before we ride to the Roof of the World, the better.”
“I would prefer never to ride there,” replies Terek.
Hissl concentrates. The white mists part, and a half-built tower appears, a tower whose walls seem as smooth as glass and as dark as winter water unruffled by wind. A silver-haired man struggles to position a long slab of stone to form the top step in a wide stone staircase.
“Great wizardry …” mumbles Hissl, the sweat beading on his forehead from the effort to maintain the image.
“It would take a score of scores to take that tower even now with the weapons they have.” Terek paces away from the table. “Those stones seem steeped in order.”
“Could you not fire it?” Hissl relaxes, and the image fades.
“Now-but what if they roof it with split slate? It would be two or three eight-days before Lord Sillek could assemble a force and ride there. Can you see Lord Sillek building siege engines upon the Roof of the World?”
“He could,” suggests Hissl. “Anything is possible for a great lord.”
“You are so dense. What would Lord Ildyrom be doing once he discovered Lord Sillek and his engineers and most of his armsmen were upon the Roof of the World?”
“So Lord Sillek leaves them alone? Is that so bad? It’s only good for summer pasture anyway, if that. What does he lose?”
“Honor … face. We told Lord Nessil about the strangers. If his son and heir cannot defeat them, what do you think he will do to us? And it will be us, not just me, Hissl.”
Hissl pulls at his chin. “It could be a cold winter.”
“In irons below the castle, your hands and arms would be burned apart-if you lasted that long.” Terek glances at the glass. “See if you can find anything else.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
Hissl concentrates once more, and a band of riders now appear in the screeing glass, with one of the lead riders bearing a white banner with a dark square in its center.
“Traders …” mused Terek. “Almost armed like bandits.”
“Skiodra, probably …” muttered Hissl, the sweat beading more heavily on his forehead with the effort of holding the second image.
“Can you open it a little more?”
Hissl concentrates, and more sweat pours off his forehead, even as the mists widen to reveal dark pines and rocks, and a needle peak in the background.
“It looks like the Westhorns, along the high road toward the Roof of the World.” Terek smiles. “Skiodra is just the type to steal what he can and destroy the rest. He only trades when he has to.” The chief wizard rubs his hands together.
“What if he trades them weapons?” Hissl releases the image and blots his forehead.
Terek frowns and stops rubbing his hands. “That’s not the problem. They have weapons. They have more weapons than they have soldiers, if that’s what those women in dark gray are. What if they trade weapons for goods? Even a poor sword is worth half a gold.”
“You said Skiodra is not much better than a bandit.”
“Let us hope he is an effective bandit-a very effective bandit.”
Hissl nods, but his eyes drop to the glass.
XVIII
NYLAN STUDIED THE staircase again, considering the wisdom of such a massive central pedestal. He’d had five purposes in mind-to provide a central support for the square tower, to make flooring each level easy, to provide an interior storage space, to allow for firm stone steps, to provide for chimneys, and to provide an interior air tunnel for ventilation. All that was well and good, but its construction had slowed that of the tower wall, still only slightly above the second level.
He put his foot on the nearest brace, wiggled it gently. Because Nylan had no really accurate way of calculating loads, he was estimating and feeling the bracing, setting the stripped logs that formed the bracing for the floors only about three handspans apart.
“Cessya, this isn’t solid on the outside.”
“Weblya is bringing up some wedges now. Then we’ll mortar it in place.” Using the crude tripod crane, Cessya and another marine eased another timber toward the stone-lined slots.
“Frig! It’s still too big. Needs more trimming.”
As the big roan bearing Ryba neared the tower, Nylanstepped away from the long flat section of stone that would anchor the next section of the staircase and started down the stone stairs.