more, that we'll have to convert half the fifth level into a barracks room or something.” Saryn turned her head as if Ryba were to appear, and the short, dark brown hair seemed almost black in the great room lit by only the four armaglass windows. “Or start adding to the tower,” Nylan said. “You said it would hold over a hundred.”
“It will,” the smith answered, his eyes still seeking Ayrlyn, He hadn't seen Istril, either. “How many years will it take to build the addition if each stone has to be chipped out of the canyon with a sledge and chisel?” Somehow, Nylan wasn't thrilled about adding to Westwind, but he wasn't about to voice that lack of enthusiasm.
“Oh...”
“Exactly.” Nylan fed Dyliess a morsel of bread, although she'd already eaten. Dyliess promptly gummed it and deposited starchy brown drool on Nylan's hand.
“I was wondering,” ventured the dark-haired former ship's pilot. “Is there any way you could forge more bows? I mean, you started on the first blades with the laser, but you managed to forge the others.”
“There's cormclit left,” Nylan acknowledged, “but it's a directional heatshield composite. I had the demon's own time cutting it with a laser. It just fragments into strands when I've tried to cut it with a chisel, and bench shears just jam or chew it into shreds. Then there are the alloys. I can't even soften the lightweight, high-temp ones, and those were what I used for those bows.” He shook his head. “I've tried, but. . .”
He frowned. Had that flash of flame-red been Ayrlyn headed down to the kitchen?
“I thought I'd ask. We've only got sixteen of those killer bows.” Saryn coughed. All too many guards coughed through the winter, probably from too much mouth breathing outside in the chill of the Roof of the World. “We only lost one in the battle.”
“You threatened to dismember any guard who lost one, even if she were dying,” said Huldran. “I remember that.”
“I was right,” Saryn said. “They're twice as good as anything the locals have, and they're not replaceable.”
“There's still too much up here that's not replaceable,” Nylan offered. “We need a better low-tech base.”
“Like your sawmill?” Saryn grinned. “What comes after that?”
“I thought about a flour mill, but we're too high to grow grain-”
“He never stops thinking, does he?” The number two of the Westwind guards finished her tea with a gulp.
There was too much to think about, reflected Nylan, from Ryba's coldness to children to Ayrlyn, not to mention smithing. He'd still only rough-formed the prosthetic foot for Daryn-something for a man would certainly be low on Ryba's priority list, he suspected, far below weapons.
“Got to run,” added Saryn. “We're going to see what it's like down below near that grove of hardwoods off the lower meadow below the brickworks. You remember those ironwood trees? They're lousy for woodworking, but the healer says they'll make good charcoal. You did say you needed charcoal.”
“I did. We can't do much at the smithy without it.”
“Daaaa...” injected Dyliess, lurching toward Nylan's mug again.
By the time he had intercepted her grasping fingers and had his tea under control, Saryn was headed out of the great hall.
“She's a handful,” said Huldran.
“Saryn? She's not bad.”
“I meant your daughter.” Huldran laughed. “Already, she has a mind of her own.”
Like her mother, Nylan thought, but he only said, “She does.” Then he finished the last of his own tea and a last morsel of cheese before standing and lurching off the bench and toward the stairs to the tower's lower level.
Still carrying Dyliess, Nylan made his way down the stone stairs into the warmth below. Turning away from the heat of the kitchen, where Blynnal and her crew labored, Nylan found Ayrlyn in the corner of the
“It will,” the smith answered, his eyes still seeking Ayrlyn, He hadn't seen Istril, either. “How many years will it take to build the addition if each stone has to be chipped out of the canyon with a sledge and chisel?” Somehow, Nylan wasn't thrilled about adding to Westwind, but he wasn't about to voice that lack of enthusiasm.
“Oh...”
“Exactly.” Nylan fed Dyliess a morsel of bread, although she'd already eaten. Dyliess promptly gummed it and deposited starchy brown drool on Nylan's hand.
“I was wondering,” ventured the dark-haired former ship's pilot. “Is there any way you could forge more bows? I mean, you started on the first blades with the laser, but you managed to forge the others.”
“There's cormclit left,” Nylan acknowledged, “but it's a directional heatshield composite. I had the demon's own time cutting it with a laser. It just fragments into strands when I've tried to cut it with a chisel, and bench shears just jam or chew it into shreds. Then there are the alloys. I can't even soften the lightweight, high-temp ones, and those were what I used for those bows.” He shook his head. “I've tried, but. . .”
He frowned. Had that flash of flame-red been Ayrlyn headed down to the kitchen?
“I thought I'd ask. We've only got sixteen of those killer bows.” Saryn coughed. All too many guards coughed through the winter, probably from too much mouth breathing outside in the chill of the Roof of the World. “We only lost one in the battle.”
“You threatened to dismember any guard who lost one, even if she were dying,” said Huldran. “I remember that.”
“I was right,” Saryn said. “They're twice as good as anything the locals have, and they're not replaceable.”
“There's still too much up here that's not replaceable,” Nylan offered. “We need a better low-tech base.”
“Like your sawmill?” Saryn grinned. “What comes after that?”
“I thought about a flour mill, but we're too high to grow grain-”
“He never stops thinking, does he?” The number two of the Westwind guards finished her tea with a gulp.
There was too much to think about, reflected Nylan, from Ryba's coldness to children to Ayrlyn, not to mention smithing. He'd still only rough-formed the prosthetic foot for Daryn-something for a man would certainly be low on Ryba's priority list, he suspected, far below weapons.
“Got to run,” added Saryn. “We're going to see what it's like down below near that grove of hardwoods off the lower meadow below the brickworks. You remember those ironwood trees? They're lousy for woodworking, but the healer says they'll make good charcoal. You did say you needed charcoal.”
“I did. We can't do much at the smithy without it.”
“Daaaa...” injected Dyliess, lurching toward Nylan's mug again.
By the time he had intercepted her grasping fingers and had his tea under control, Saryn was headed out of the great hall.
“She's a handful,” said Huldran.
“Saryn? She's not bad.”
“I meant your daughter.” Huldran laughed. “Already, she has a mind of her own.”
Like her mother, Nylan thought, but he only said, “She does.” Then he finished the last of his own tea and a last morsel of cheese before standing and lurching off the bench and toward the stairs to the tower's lower level.
Still carrying Dyliess, Nylan made his way down the stone stairs into the warmth below. Turning away from the heat of the kitchen, where Blynnal and her crew labored, Nylan found Ayrlyn in the corner of the
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