"It's so fair to beat someone who can't flee or fight back," murmured the marshal. "So honorable ..."

The slender hard-faced man took one look at the dying man, ducked to one side of his mount, and spurred the beast toward the woods.

"Get him!" Ryba ordered, urging the roan after Pretar.

Fierral nocked and released an arrow. So did the other four guards.

The blond man and the horse went down, the horse screaming.

Nylan's legs felt weak, and he forced himself to remain erect, despite the white flashes of death that washed over him. He was glad he hadn't been forced to use his blade, but how often could he avoid it on this frigging brutal planet?

"Damn!" muttered Fierral. "That was a good horse."

Ryba studied the two corpses before riding back to Nistayna. "One always pays for freedom." Her voice was cold. "I hope you will use that freedom well."

Nistayna looked from the marshal to Nylan.

"Angels are not sweet, lady," he added. "They are often just and terrible, and few indeed are strong enough for justice." Even as he spoke, he wondered how just murdering two men had been.

With a sigh, he walked toward Fierral. "Put the bodies on the cart. I'll take them up to the tower. Then, after I unload, I'll send someone down with the cart for the horse. Maybe Blynnal can make a few meals out of it."

Nylan glanced from Fierral to Ryba, still seated on the roan. Ryba shifted her weight in the saddle, and he realized that the ride had been painful for her.

"This was a setup." She answered his unspoken question. "Either they brought her back, and that proved we could be intimidated or taken, or they came back empty-handed, and set it up for an army. This way, no one knows for sure." She shrugged. "People don't like to send out armies or armed forces when they don't know what happened."

She turned the roan back toward the tower. "Hryessa?"

The young guard drew her mount beside the marshal as the two horses slowly walked uphill.

"Stupid . . . they were stupid . .." muttered Berlis.

Nylan looked from Ryba to the two refugees, and then to the bodies on the cart.

While he understood Ryba's logic, he couldn't say he was pleased with the speed with which it was made and the dispatch with which it was executed. Literally executed, he reflected sardonically.

He turned toward the gray mare, wondering again. Ryba anticipated trouble, and in any "civilized" world, that would be called murder. Yet . . . was preventing abuse and death through death exactly wrong? He shook his head. The problem was that you couldn't always be sure that a killing before the fact was justified, visions or no visions.

He untied the leather leads to the cart horse and flicked them. The wheels creaakked as he resumed the long climb up to the ridge, the tower, and the smithy site.

LXXXIII.

AT THE THRAP on the door, Hissl turns from the window. The knocking continues when he does not move.

"Just a moment." The wizard composes himself and steps forward, his fingers on the hilt of the white-bronze dagger at his belt.

A hooded figure stands at the outside door to Hissl's room and bows. "Have you thought about the keys to your wishes?"

"The keys to my wishes? How would you presume?"

"You are tired of being thought of as the second wizard, as a tool to be used and left aside. You would like position and power in your own right." The hooded figure remains on the landing.

"Stay there." Hissl takes two steps back, still watching his visitor, then circles behind the table with the glass. He looks from the hooded figure to the glass, then concentrates.

Slowly, a shape appears in the swirling mists, the figure of an armsman in brown leathers with a purple sash across the thin breastplate. Behind the figure is a black stone tower.

Hissl does not wipe his sweating brow as he releases his hold upon the glass.

"You are an armsman, but you come from the black tower of the devil angels. I could kill you." He pauses. "I should kill you."

The armsman takes one step into the room and stops. He extends his right hand, missing the index finger and thumb, but does not throw back the hood, for all that his features had just appeared in the screeing glass. "The angels took those from me. I cannot return to Lornth or my family. I offer you the chance for power and position."

"How can you offer me power and position? You have nothing." Hissl laughs.

"And you have returned to the lands of Lornth, if not Lornth itself."

"My ... patron would like to see Westwind fall."

"Westwind?"

"That is what the evil angels call their tower and the lands they stole from the Lord of Lornth."

"If your patron is so powerful, why does he not take this . . . Westwind himself?"

The armsman shrugs. "Lord Nessil could not, not with threescore armsmen.

You and the great hunter could, knowing what he knows and what you know, and what I know."

"And what is that?"

"He will have to tell you that."

"I am supposed to take that on faith? Ha!" Hissl laughs again.

"Here is another token." Slowly, the armsman extends an object, bending forward and setting it on the table beside the glass.

Hissl looks at the thunder-thrower, smaller than he had realized. "Why would I need that?"

"So you will not take the hunter on faith."

Hissl licks his lips as he regards the metal object that radiates both chaos and order. Finally, he says, "What does the hunter want?"

"To meet with you. To plan the conquest of Westwind."

"Ha! Young Relyn of Gethen had nearly twoscore armsmen, and he failed. So did Lord Nessil. You, your hunter, and I are supposed to succeed when they did not?"

"I was bid to tell you that more than a third of the angels who faced Lord Nessil are dead. Four are with child or have a babe, and only one thunder-thrower still works. Many of the angels are unhappy with the highest angel, and the black mage has lost much of his magic."

Hissl shrugs. "If your... patron is so eager to see me ... why, have him come to Clynya."

The hooded figure nods. "He said you would bid me so. Before long, he will come."

"I would like to see him." Hissl forces a smile. "That I would."

LXXXIV.

"I'LL TAKE HER." In the darkness, Nylan slipped out of his side of the bed, his former lander couch, and picked up Dyliess. "She can't be hungry. You just fed the little pig."

He checked her makeshift diaper-too much remained makeshift within Tower Black-but she was dry. Nylan eased into the rocking chair. "Now ... now... little one..."

Despite his gentle singing, Dyliess's moans changed into a full-fledged crying.

Ryba sat up. "I'm tired, but not enough to sleep through that."

The engineer kept rocking, kept singing. Ryba flopped back on one side and rubbed her forehead. Outside the tower, the night wind whispered, its gentle hissing lost behind the cries and songs in the tower.

Dyliess continued to cry for a time. Then her cries dropped off to moans, and the moans to sniffles. Finally, she gave a last snuffle. Nylan continued to rock, and the wind whispered through the cracks in the shutters.

"I can't sleep, now," said Ryba, just above a whisper. "And I have a headache."

Nylan refrained from saying that he had several, and instead patted Dyliess on the back and stood, walking back and forth between the partly open armaglass window and the cradle. Finally sensing she was asleep, he eased Dyliess into the cradle, then immediately knelt and patted her back with one hand while rocking the cradle with the other.

Dyliess took three noisy breaths and settled back to sleep, but Nylan eased off the rocking slowly. After a time, he stopped and returned to his side of the bed, where he sat on the edge, eyes closed, and rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand.

"We haven't talked about children," Ryba said quietly into the darkness.

"What about them?"

"You never answered my question. You're being difficult."

"Probably."

"Do you want everything we represent lost?"

Nylan took a deep breath. "I don't know. It seems as though, so long as I build towers, and bridges, and bathhouses, and smithies, everything is fine, but when I say... oh... never mind... I can't explain how I feel."

"You haven't tried," said Ryba in a reasonable tone.

"You have everything figured out. If we don't kill these two men, dozens will arrive, and we'll have to kill them, too, or be killed. If we don't use the two men as studs, we might have our gene pool contaminated too soon ..."

"Aren't you being harsh?"

"You've said or done all those." Nylan's shoulders slumped in the darkness, and his eyes dropped to the cradle. Would Dyliess be as coldly reasonable as her mother?

"We landed with twenty-seven women. No sooner had we landed than a local lord showed up wanting to turn us all into serfs or concubines, or worse, and probably to slaughter all three of you men. Since then, we have made not one aggressive gesture toward the locals. We have not raided; we have not stolen. All we have done is build a place to live where they can't and try to survive. The locals are still trying to kill us or cheat us ... or both. The local women, some of them at least, are risking death to find refuge here. Maybe all this local male behavior is mere lousy socialization. Maybe it's not. Do you want me to gamble after everything that's happened? Do you really want Gerlich's genes to dominate Westwind?"

Nylan rubbed his temples again. Finally, he said, "The killing hurts. Even when I don't do it, it hurts."

"You think I like it?"

"I know you don't," Nylan said. "I'm telling you something different. It's part of this net, or whatever it is, but when someone's killed, a wave of whiteness, like mental acid or something, washes through me."

"Ayrlyn told me the same thing happens to her." Ryba paused. "You both have that ability to help healing. They're probably tied together."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"We still haven't dealt with the children problem. Do you want me to risk-"

Nylan raised a hand to wave off the question, but realized that Ryba couldn't see the gesture. "You've been right about most things, but... and this sounds like a woman ... I still feel violated."

"I've noticed that. You stay on your side of the couches. Are you ... do you need time?"

Nylan took a slow deep breath, wondering if time would ever heal anything. "I don't know that time would heal things." He paused. "Do you want me to move my stuff elsewhere?"

"No." Ryba's voice was cool.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to think about things. We can move the couches apart, if that will help."

Nylan puzzled at Ryba's tone, wondering about the wrongness again. "More visions?"

"You could say that."

Nylan could sense the sadness and reserve in the tired voice, and the anger. "I'm sorry."

"So am I, but being sorry doesn't solve things."

He eased his body next to hers, putting his arms around her shoulders.

She pushed him away. "I don't need your comfort."

"Ryba . . ." He put his arms back around her. Who else could hold her, and who else besides Ryba was strong enough to bring them through? His eyes burned, even as his own anger seethed, but he whispered, "Even marshals need to be held."

"I don't need you ... I don't need anyone."

In the end, he looked into the darkness, while Ryba, the marshal, the farsighted, sobbed silently, again, with her face away from him.

Dyliess slept, and the wind hissed through the window.

LXXXV.

THE WATCH TRIANGLE rang once, well before mid-morning, and Nylan ignored the summons to the tower, continuing to lay brick, although he hoped that it signaled Ayrlyn's return, and that she'd been able to find saw blades.

The back wall was complete, and the side walls were thigh-high. Where the front wall would be, the space for the double doors was framed in brick-but only knee-high- and he needed to leave spaces for two windows.

By the time he finished using the last of the mortar, Ayrlyn and the cart were headed down from the ridge. Nylan squinted. There were two people on the cart seat, and two in the cart, and five on horseback. A stranger accompanied the four guards who had gone with the healer on her trading run.

The engineer wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked down at the empty mortar tub. Beside it were the baskets of crushed lava, clay, and what passed for lime. He set the trowel down and started downhill.