"What short way?" Nylan's words came out as he bounced in the unfamiliar saddle, reflecting that any saddle would have been unfamiliar.

The silver-haired marine laughed. "Over the cliff. Where we're headed is really just below the landers. A long way straight down."

"Oh." Nylan readjusted his weight in the saddle.

By the time they reached the bottom of the ridge and crossed the cold narrow stream, Nylan felt the tightness in his legs. The rain had dropped off more to a soft mist, and the clouds above appeared a lighter featureless gray.

"Sometimes we see those scouts in purple, but lately they've pulled back. Don't see any travelers, but Narliat says that we won't until it gets warmer, toward midsummer. People don't cross the Westhorns that much."

"That's what they call these mountains?" asked Nylan. "The Easthorns are the other big range, then."

"Guess so." Istril drew her blade and ran through a set of what looked like blade exercises as the horses paralleled the small stream. When she finished, she wiped the blade on a scrap of something tucked in her belt and sheathed it. "Good blade, ser."

"Thank you. I wish I could use one the way you and Ryba do."

"Practice. Never thought I'd have a real use for it." She laughed softly and leaned forward in the saddle. "There! Look up on the hill."

Nylan looked. A tawny catlike creature vanished behind a bushy pine.

"Those are the big cats. They don't like us much. I think there are something like bears, too, but I've only seen tracks."

'Nylan glanced up at the nearly sheer rock wall that began on the far side of the stream. "Hard to believe we're up there." He looked back toward the thick trunks of the evergreens where the big cat had vanished. Would it have been better to bring everything down the ridge?

"It's less than a kay ahead, in and out, just above where the other little stream joins," explained Istril.

The two streams joined below a reddish-brown mound that held some bushes Nylan didn't recognize, and only clumps of grass. Just above where the two streams joined, a narrow log, a fallen fir limb, lay half in and half out of the water.

A brownish green frog smaller than Nylan's fist squatted on the water-peeled limb, then plopped into the stream and vanished.

After dismounting and tying the horse to an evergreen branch, he jumped across the stream, nearly plunging back into it when his worn shipboots skidded on the slippery ground. He grabbed a bush and steadied himself, then bent down and scooped up some of the clay, almost as plastic as dough. The consistency seemed right, but how could he tell? "Can we start a small fire here?"

"I can probably find some sticks." Istril brushed a lock of silver hair back over her ear and dismounted.

While the marine gathered brush and some small branches, Nylan experimented with the protoclay. It looked right, felt right, but would it fire right?

He rolled out several small balls with his hands, then some flat sections, and one small crude potlike shape, then another.

His striker, when he had finally used Istril's knife to scrape some-thin dry shavings, worked in getting the fire started. They added drier branches and waited until there was a small bed of coals, on which Nylan, after wetting his hands in the chill water, placed his test items.

Then he washed the reddish clay off his hands in the water that chilled all the way up his arms. While the clay balls and flat sections baked on the coals, coals that occasionally hissed in the few drops of water falling from the gray sky or nearby trees, Nylan slowly trudged up the narrow gorge, looking up to his right as he went. Up there, somewhere, was the plateau where the landers rested.

Istril trudged beside him, looking more to the sides as she did. "Doesn't look like many people have been here."

"Probably not. You saw how cold those traders looked- and we were sweating."

Nylan stopped and looked up the cliff. If they had rope ... perhaps they could get some rope the next time-if there were a next time ... if the traders had rope. He studied the cliff. The vertical was still more than four hundred cubits, and probably treacherous at the top. Plus ... the fired clay wouldn't be that strong and that meant any sustained banging against the rocks would probably crack it unless it were heavily padded-and that meant even more rope and equipment.

If he built the firing hearth up the branch of the creek, which would be dry most of the time- He pulled at his chin. Either the clay went up on horses, or the finished bricks and pipe did.

There was enough wood nearby. He hoped the two-person saw they had bought from Skiodra would help in cutting wood for the firing. Or would it be needed for planks and timbers? Could they use one of the smaller saws on the deadwood to get firewood? Why did he think things would be simple?

Finally, he turned and started back down to the coals.

"Be a long trip to bring things up," observed Istril.

"Very long. But there's a lot of wood here, and not nearly so much up there."

"That makes sense, ser."

Nylan hoped so.

He used a stick to ease one of the balls out of the coals. While the ball had cracked in two, the half coated with ash seemed hard enough. The other side was still damp in parts.

While he could feel that the clay was right, he decided to wait a while longer for the other pieces. He had the feeling that, so far as the clay and brick works were concerned, he-or someone-was going to be doing a lot of experimenting, and a lot of waiting.

XX.

"I SEE YOU still intend to let those women flaunt their defiance at you from the Roof of the World." The lady Ellindyja holds the needlework loosely.

"When did you take up needlework?" asks Sillek.

"When I found myself no longer useful to the Lord of Lornth, I took up the diversions of my youth." Ellindyja eases the outer wooden hoop off, readjusts the cloth over the inner hoop, and replaces the outer hoop. Then she picks up the needle.

"We haven't replaced the armsmen we lost."

"Nor your father's ring. Nor his honor." Ellindyja's voice is acid-edged.

"The present Lord of Lornth would appreciate any suggestions you might have, my dear mother, which do not either bankrupt me or leave our lands open to Lord Ildyrom."

"I have been thinking, Sillek-about heritages and honor."

Lord Sillek purses his lips, then asks, "What of something besides an attack we cannot afford."

"Well ... if one must resort to more indirect and more merchantlike means, Sillek, my son, surely there must be some ... adventurers... out there who might want a reward of sorts, perhaps some small parcel of almost worthless land, and a title... even a pardon... if necessary." Ellindyja smiles brightly.

"Hmmmm . . ." Sillek paces to the tower window and back. His fingers touch his trimmed beard. "Not nearly so expensive as troops. It might even reduce the banditry-one way or another."

"I am more than happy to be of service, Sillek-as I was for your father. He was a most honorable man."

"I don't think we'll make the offer through a broadsheet, though."

"No . . . that would be too overtly merchantly. Tell your wizards and your senior armsmen, and make sure that the traders' guild knows. That is the way the better merchants operate."

"I do so appreciate your advice." Sillek paces back to the window, glancing out into the slashing rain that has poured off the Westhorns. "Your advice is always welcome." He only emphasizes the word "advice" ever so slightly.

"I am so glad you do."

Sillek does not turn from the window, not until he forces a smile back upon his lips.

XXI.

NYLAN SPLASHED HIS face again, trying to wash away the stone dust, then took a long swallow of the cold stream water. The water carried away some of the acridness and dustiness that seeped endlessly into his nostrils and dried his throat. After another swallow, he walked back toward the tower. In the foot- packed clay area beyond the rough stacked stones and the space where Cessya and Huldran alternated splitting the slates for roofing tiles, Istril and Ryba were working at blade practice, using the wooden wands that were far safer for beginners.

Nylan shivered. His turn would be coming up. He set down his cup on the nearest pile of black stone and watched as Saryn and Ryba began to spar. Despite the partial splint that remained on Saryn's leg, their wands flickered, faster, and then even faster, until Nylan's own heart and lungs seemed to be racing. Even Istril and Siret had stopped, both silver-haired marines following the action. As Saryn limped backward and lowered her wand, the engineer finally caught his breath.

"Ah, yes," came a voice from the sunny side of a pile of cut stones meant for the sixth level of the tower.

Nylan leaned over to see Narliat drinking in the reflected heat from the stone.

"Yes?"

"The she-angels, those two, and I see why Lord Nessil is dead."

"You liked Lord Nessil?" Nylan tried to keep his voice neutral.

"He was more honest than most, but he was terrible when he was angered, and he was angered a lot. That is not what I meant, Mage. I am a man, too, and I was an armsman." Narliat shrugged. "I would not lift a sword against your she-angels.

They would kill me in three strokes, even the one who is crippled, and I have killed a few men. They were poor farmers, but they were strong, and I did not want to die." Narliat looked back to the practice space where Ryba had followed Saryn's lead and set aside her weapon. "I see the she-angels, and I see the whole world change."

Nylan could feel the sweat oozing from his forehead as he stood in the sun. He looked down at the local, wearing a jacket and huddled against the black stone, almost for warmth. "You're cold?"

"Not if I stay here." Narliat smiled. "You will make your tower warm, will you not?"

Nylan looked toward the stones, looking more like dark gray in the sunlight than the black they had seemed when Nylan had cut them from the mountain.

"Not that warm-"

"A tower-on the Roof of the World. Only the angels would dare-"

"Nylan! Since you're not cutting or setting stone, let's get your practice done now." Ryba motioned.

Narliat grinned as the engineer trudged toward the practice area.

"Here you go." Ryba handed Nylan one of the hand-carved wands. "It's not balanced the way I'd like-"

"I know. We've been through this before." Nylan lifted the wand. The last few times he'd actually managed to keep Ryba from tapping him at will, but he had no illusions about his ability to hold off a master swordsman or armsman or whatever they were called.

"Set your feet."

Nylan shuffled into position.

"Not like an old man, Nylan."

Behind them Nylan could see Saryn motioning to one of the marines.

"Pay attention," snapped Ryba.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the wand, on Ryba's face, framed in jet-black hair, and upon her wand.

"That's better. Ready?" Her wand thrust toward him, and he parried, clumsily, barely deflecting it.

"You can do better than that." This time her wand was quicker, and Nylan tried to counter, but the edge of the wood thwacked his shoulder.

"Ooo . . ." He wanted to rub it, but had to dance aside as another slash whistled toward him, and another ... and another.

Somehow, he managed to slip, block, deflect, and dance away from most of the captain's thrusts and slashes.

"All right." Ryba stepped back. "That's what you should be facing, but most of the locals aren't that good. Most don't use the points of their blades, but the edges, and that's different." Nylan shook his head and blinked, then blotted the sweat from his eyes.

"They use heavier blades and try to beat you to a pulp." Ryba picked up the wider wooden weapon, the one with a wooden blade that looked more like a narrow plank than a practice weapon. "You need to work on deflecting a heavier blade. You can't meet it directly, not without losing your own blade or risking having it broken." She took the bigger wooden slab in "two hands. "Ready?"

"Yes," said the engineer, even as he thought, No.

The first time his light wand met Ryba's heavy one, the impact shivered all the way up his arm, and he staggered back, dancing aside to avoid another counterstroke before the third one slammed into his thigh.

"You'd be crippled for life if that had been a real blade, and if I hadn't pulled it at the end. Demon-damn, Nylan, this is serious, and these things can kill you-and they will."

"Fine for you to say . . ." he gasped. "You grew up with them."

"Get your blade up. Get it up."

He raised his wand, ignoring the pun, and waited, then half ducked, half slid the heavier wand.

"Better. Get it back up." Ryba sent another slash at his open side.

Nylan jumped and slid his wand over hers, then drove the heavier blade almost into the dirt.

"Good. Use their momentum against them. Those crowbars are heavy."

But it didn't seem that heavy for Ryba because she whipped it back up and around, and Nylan was back pedal-ing again, and again.

Still, in between all her hits, he did manage to drop the heavy wand into the dirt once more and actually strike Ryba on the shoulder, lightly.

Finally, she stepped back, "Not bad. You've got a feel for it. Right now, you could probably hold off the weaker locals. You just need more practice." Ryba smiled. "I can see that you'll be good-very good-with the blade." Her smile vanished, replaced momentarily with a look Nylan could only term somber. "It won't be easy." She looked toward the tower and shook her head.

Nylan lowered the wand, his entire body dripping sweat. Practicing against Ryba was worse than carting heavy stones up the seemingly endless tower steps, and probably a lot more futile. He handed the wand back to her. "Sometimes," he said, "it feels futile. I'll never be as good as you are."

She took the wand from him, lowering her voice. "You don't have to be. You're an engineer, and you're going to be a wizard or a mage or whatever they call them." Ryba paused. "Narliat already thinks you are." Then she added, "But you still need good basic defense skills, and that means more practice."

Nylan wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm. "Mage?"

"It has to do with the way you use the laser. You ought to be able to use this local net or whatever it is for more than that." Ryba offered a forced smile. "I know you can."

"Thanks. You're so encouraging."

"I know what I know." She shrugged. "Only sometimes ... unfortunately." Then she looked toward the two marines standing back beyond the stacked slate, and pointed at the silver-haired one. "Llyselle, we don't have forever."

Nylan trudged back to the stream to wash his face again before he returned to the business of setting stone in the walls of the tower. Even the cold water didn't cool him much. The yellow sunflowers had begun to wilt, and were being replaced by small white flowers that hugged the ground between clumps of grass. Nylan felt like one of the wilted yellow flowers.