Read Online Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance by L.E Modesitt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L.E Modesitt
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didn't have enough firewood. Or windows. The shutters just couldn't keep out the wind.”
“Or blankets. Or food.” Ayrlyn shifted her weight in the saddle. “Look! Tracks.” She pointed to the sets of prints in the shaded expanse of snow under the firs to the right of the trail.
“A big snow cat, but they're melted out a bit. Yesterday or the day before, I'd guess. Istril keeps hoping that I'll be able to kill another one, or two so that Weryl can have a parka.” The smith laughed. “The first one almost got me, and the second wasn't much better.”
“Their coats are warm-and soft.”
“They also have claws as long as a dagger and sharper.”
“Like Ryba,” offered Ayrlyn.
“I'd bet on her against the cat, bare-handed, even.”
“And take odds,” added the healer.
They both laughed, and the sound echoed briefly, then vanished into the tall firs and pines that lined the rough road.
After they eased the mares through yet another deeper and slushy snowdrift, a narrow canyon appeared to the left, like a gash in the cliff that supported the Roof of the World. The two eased their mounts up the narrow road, widened the year before to allow a cart passage, until they reached a natural clearing where the brook curved around the exposed clay bank. Behind that was a low building.
“There you are-the fabled brickworks.” Ayrlyn leaned over from the saddle and studied the road and the interspersed patches of snow. “I don't see anything but animal tracks. Hares, deer, and an old snow cat print, I think.”
“Be surprised if the locals were this high this early, but you never know.” Nylan urged the mare over the rushing rivulet toward the small shuttered brick building and the two loaf-shaped outdoor ovens that comprised the brickworks. The clay pit to the right and downslope of the ovens was filled with water and chunks of ice.
The smith reined up by the pit and studied the slumping sides. Then he shook his head. “Now we need a pump. Every time I think I've gotten caught up, there's something else I need to make.”
“That's true everywhere.” Ayrlyn stopped her chestnut and turned her face into the sun. “Without the breeze, it feels almost warm.”
“It is warm,” Nylan protested, loosening his jacket, almost theatrically.
“For those of you raised in the Sybran freezer, maybe. For normal souls, it's still cold as mid-winter on decent worlds.”
“Decent is a matter of opinion, my beloved healer.”
“You never called me your beloved healer before, even joking.”
“I should have. I thought it.”
“I need to hear things like that. I may feel your pain, dear engineer, but my ability to sense order flows in bodies doesn't translate thoughts, no matter what people say.”
“You never called me 'dear' before, either,” Nylan said.
“Tit for tat.” Ayrlyn grinned, then gestured. “This project looks all right.”
“I worry more about the mill. We just had to leave it, you know.”
“Your heroics on the battlefield didn't leave you in any shape to do much until well after the snows came, you might recall.”
“They weren't heroics,” Nylan said dryly. “And you weren't in much better shape, I believe.” The engineer patted the mare's shoulder, then urged her uphill past the ovens toward the uncompleted sawmill-mostly a flat expanse that comprised the foundation for the mill, and the stone and brick wall next to the end of the snow-filled millrace. The troubles he'd had trying to create even the center of the mill wheel the fall before!
The smith flicked the reins and eased the mare uphill again through the knee-deep slush and toward the dark wall of the mill pond that extended from the canyon rock face on his right to the hillside slope a hundred cubits or more to his left.
He reined up short of the water that poured downhill like ice-blue
“Or blankets. Or food.” Ayrlyn shifted her weight in the saddle. “Look! Tracks.” She pointed to the sets of prints in the shaded expanse of snow under the firs to the right of the trail.
“A big snow cat, but they're melted out a bit. Yesterday or the day before, I'd guess. Istril keeps hoping that I'll be able to kill another one, or two so that Weryl can have a parka.” The smith laughed. “The first one almost got me, and the second wasn't much better.”
“Their coats are warm-and soft.”
“They also have claws as long as a dagger and sharper.”
“Like Ryba,” offered Ayrlyn.
“I'd bet on her against the cat, bare-handed, even.”
“And take odds,” added the healer.
They both laughed, and the sound echoed briefly, then vanished into the tall firs and pines that lined the rough road.
After they eased the mares through yet another deeper and slushy snowdrift, a narrow canyon appeared to the left, like a gash in the cliff that supported the Roof of the World. The two eased their mounts up the narrow road, widened the year before to allow a cart passage, until they reached a natural clearing where the brook curved around the exposed clay bank. Behind that was a low building.
“There you are-the fabled brickworks.” Ayrlyn leaned over from the saddle and studied the road and the interspersed patches of snow. “I don't see anything but animal tracks. Hares, deer, and an old snow cat print, I think.”
“Be surprised if the locals were this high this early, but you never know.” Nylan urged the mare over the rushing rivulet toward the small shuttered brick building and the two loaf-shaped outdoor ovens that comprised the brickworks. The clay pit to the right and downslope of the ovens was filled with water and chunks of ice.
The smith reined up by the pit and studied the slumping sides. Then he shook his head. “Now we need a pump. Every time I think I've gotten caught up, there's something else I need to make.”
“That's true everywhere.” Ayrlyn stopped her chestnut and turned her face into the sun. “Without the breeze, it feels almost warm.”
“It is warm,” Nylan protested, loosening his jacket, almost theatrically.
“For those of you raised in the Sybran freezer, maybe. For normal souls, it's still cold as mid-winter on decent worlds.”
“Decent is a matter of opinion, my beloved healer.”
“You never called me your beloved healer before, even joking.”
“I should have. I thought it.”
“I need to hear things like that. I may feel your pain, dear engineer, but my ability to sense order flows in bodies doesn't translate thoughts, no matter what people say.”
“You never called me 'dear' before, either,” Nylan said.
“Tit for tat.” Ayrlyn grinned, then gestured. “This project looks all right.”
“I worry more about the mill. We just had to leave it, you know.”
“Your heroics on the battlefield didn't leave you in any shape to do much until well after the snows came, you might recall.”
“They weren't heroics,” Nylan said dryly. “And you weren't in much better shape, I believe.” The engineer patted the mare's shoulder, then urged her uphill past the ovens toward the uncompleted sawmill-mostly a flat expanse that comprised the foundation for the mill, and the stone and brick wall next to the end of the snow-filled millrace. The troubles he'd had trying to create even the center of the mill wheel the fall before!
The smith flicked the reins and eased the mare uphill again through the knee-deep slush and toward the dark wall of the mill pond that extended from the canyon rock face on his right to the hillside slope a hundred cubits or more to his left.
He reined up short of the water that poured downhill like ice-blue
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