"Let us trust that such does not come to pass, then." The needle flickers through the white fabric. "Yet how can Lord Sillek my son support such a cause merely because it would benefit the traders of Suthya?"

Lygon's brows furrow. "If you would go on ..."

"It is simple, honored trader. My son is concerned that the honor of merely regaining his patrimony is not enough to justify the deaths and the coins spent.

His lords are concerned that their daughters and the daughters on their holdings do not find the wild women alluring, but they cannot speak this because they would be seen as weak or unable to control their own women."

Lygon shakes his head. "What has this to do with trading?"

Ellindyja's lips tighten ever so slightly before she speaks. "We have few weaponsmiths, and armies require supplies. If the honor of upholding your-and our-way of life is not sufficient for you to speak to my son about the need to uphold his honor, and that of his lords, then perhaps the supplies needed in such an effort will offer some inducement. Except you need not speak of supplies to Lord Sillek. That would be too direct, even for him."

"My lady . . . you amaze me. Lord Sillek is fortunate to have a mother such as you."

"I seek only his best interests, trader. Happily, they coincide with yours."

"Indeed." Lygon's eyes wander toward the door.

Lady Ellindyja rises. "You must have matters to attend to more pressing than listening to an old lady. Still, if you could see it in your heart to offer your observations about honor and about how you see that lords would not admit their concerns publicly . .. why, I would be most grateful."

Lygon stands and bows. "I could scarcely do less for a mother so devoted to her son."

"I am deeply devoted to his best interests," Ellindyja reiterates as she escorts the tall trader to the door.

The tower door opens, and Lygon steps into the hallway and strides toward the steps to the lower level, his face impassive, his eyes not catching the blond woman who is descending from the open upper parapets.

As she follows the trader down the steps, Zeldyan's eyes flick to the door to Lady Ellindyja's room, and her mouth tightens.

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 meathorse 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! Kkkchew! 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 fiber-cabling 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 another question, 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.

LX.

SILLEK WALKS INTO the armory, followed by Terek. The Lord of Lornth spots the assistant chief armsman, sharpening a blade with a whetstone. "Rimmur?"

The thin man looks up from the stool, then stands quickly. "Yes, ser?"

Behind Sillek, Terek closes the door.

"How can I help you, ser?"

"Since Koric remains to hold Clynya, I need you to make sure that our armsmen are ready to travel as soon as the roads firm. I don't mean an eight-day later. I mean the day I lift my blade. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ser. Where do we make ready to go?"

"I'm not telling you. Nor will I until we start to march." Sillek's smile is grim.

"Ser . . . that'll make it hard . . ." Rimmur's words die under Sillek's glare. "I mean ... the men ..."

"Let me explain it," answers Sillek. "I have Ildyrom and the Jeranyi to the west, and these evil angels to the east. If I announce I'm going after the angels, Ildyrom will be in and through Clynya within days after the snows melt, or the rains -stop, and the roads firm. If I go after Ildyrom, the traders will raise their prices and lower what they pay, and the angels will be free to take over more of the Westhorns, including the trade routes and the lower pastures. If I do nothing, everyone will think they can make trouble."

"Yes, ser," answered Rimmur. "Which are you going to do?"

Sillek slaps his forehead theatrically and glares at the assistant armsman. "If I tell you and the armsmen of Lornth that I'm going after Ildyrom, then everyone will tell everyone else, and in three days all of Candar will know, and the traders and the angels will make trouble. If I say I'm going after the angels, then Ildyrom and his war-women will make trouble. So I can't say. You just have to get them ready. I'll announce where later."

"Yes, ser. They won't like it, ser."

"Rimmur ... do they want to know and be dead, or not know and be alive?"

"Ser?"

"If no one knows where we're going, whether it's after Ildyrom or the black angels, then our enemies can't plan. If they can't plan, then fewer of our men get killed. So just get them ready. Tell them what I told you."

"Yes, ser." Rimmur stands and waits.

As Terek and Sillek head up the narrow steps to the upper levels of the tower, the white wizard clears his throat, finally saying, "You never did indicate . .. ser .

"That's right, Terek. I did not. I do not know what sort of screeing or magic the angels have. So my decision remains unspoken until we leave. That way, Ildyrom and the angels have to guess not only which one I intend to attack, but also when."

"As Rimmur said, ser, that makes preparation uncertain."

"Terek . . . before this is all over, we'll end up fighting them both. So prepare for both eventualities." Sillek steps out onto the upper landing and turns. "Your preparations won't be wasted."

"Yes, ser." Terek inclines his head.

"Good." Sillek turns and walks down the corridor to the quarters where Zeldyan waits.

LXI.

THE NIGHT WIND whistled outside the tower windows, rattling the shutters on the partitioned - off side so much that small fragments of ice broke off and dropped to the floor inside the sixth level. From the third level below came the faint crying of an infant, Dephnay, but the crying died away, replaced by the faintest of nursing sounds, and gentle words.

On the slightly warmer side of the top level of the tower, protected by the thin door, the recently completed partitions and hangings, Ryba and Nylan lay in the darkness.

Nylan's legs ached from the skiing, the endless attempts to find and track the smaller rodents he knew were in the forests. His arms and shoulders ached from the drubbings he had taken in his last blade-sparring sessions with Saryn and Ryba in the half darkness of the fifth level of the tower. His lungs were heavy from the cold. His guts grumbled from the continual alternation of too much meat and too few carbohydrates with the periods of too little food at all. His upper cheeks burned from near-continual frostbite, and his fingers ached from holding a smoothing blade or a knife too long.

For all his exhaustion, he could not sleep, and his eyes fixed on the patchwork hangings that moved, ever so slightly, to the convection currents between the cold stone walls and the residual warmth of the chimney masonry that ran up the center of the tower.

Ryba lay on her back, nearly motionless, eyes closed, the woolen blanket concealing her swelling abdomen.

In the darkness through which he could see, Nylan studied her profile, chiseled against the darkness like that of a silver coin against black velvet, a profile almost of the Sybran girl-next-door, lacking the regalness that appeared whenever she was awake.

What had made her able to struggle against such odds, going from a steppe nomad child to being one of UFA's top combat commanders and to founding a nation or tradition that seemed almost fated to endure?

Would it endure? How long?