“I’d say a sheep now, and another one in an eight-day … two chickens … lay in three days … that leaves eight hens and four half-grown chicks.”
“Mounts?” asked Ryba.
“There’s one nag, gelded, barely gets around.”
“See if Kyseen can make something there. Start with the nag, not the sheep. A sheep can give wool and food. A male that can’t work and can’t stand stud-that’s useless.”
Nylan half wondered if someday he’d be just like the poor nag. He pursed his lips and waited until Saryn strode out. Then he stepped up as Ryba rose from the chair. “In short,” he said, “things are bad and getting worse, and it’s going to be a long time before the snow melts.”
“That’s not a problem,” said the marshal. “It’s going to warm up within probably three eight-days. But it’s likely to be almost eight eight-days before there’s any spring growth, even in the woods, that the animals can forage through, or before Ayrlyn can get out and trade for food.”
“Eight eight-days? That’s going to be hard. Really hard.”
“Harder than that. Much harder.” Ryba walked toward the steps down to the kitchen area.
LVIII
THE TALL MAN smooths his velvet tunic before stepping into the tower room.
“You do honor to receive me, Lady Ellindyja,” offers the tall trader.
Lady Ellindyja steps back from the door and offers a slight head bow. “I do so appreciate your kindness in coming to see one whose time is past.” She slips toward her padded bench, leaving Lygon to follow.
As she turns and sits, she picks up the embroidery hoop, and smiles as she finds the needle with the bright red thread.
“Ah … my lady, you did-”
“Lygon, you are a trader, and you have dealt fairly with Lornth for nearly a score of years.”
“That is true.” Lygon runs his hand through the thinning brown hair before settling into the chair opposite Ellindyja.“I would like to believe I have always been fair. Firm, but fair.” He laughs. “Firm they sometimes take for being harsh, but without a profit, there’s no trading.”
“Just as for lords, without honor, there is no ruling?” asks Ellindyja, her needle still poised above the white fabric of the hoop.
Lygon shifts his weight on the chair. “I would say that both lords and traders need honor.”
“What weight does honor add to a trader’s purse?” asks Ellindyja, her tone almost idle.
“People must believe you will deliver what you promised, that your goods are what you state they are.”
“Do you tell people what to buy?”
Lygon frowns before he answers. “Hardly. You cannot sell what people do not want.”
“I fear that is true in ruling, too,” offers Ellindyja, her eyes dropping to her embroidery as the needle completes a stitch. “The lords of a land have expectations. Surely, you are familiar with this?”
“I am a trader, lady, not a lord.” Lygon shifts his weight.
“I know, and you would like to continue trading in Lornth, would you not?” Ellindyja smiles.
“Lady …” Lygon begins to stand.
“Please be seated, trader Lygon. I am not threatening, for I certainly have no power to threaten. I am not plotting or scheming, for I have my son’s best interests at heart. But, as any mother does, I have concerns, and my concerns deal with honor.” With another bright smile, Ellindyja fixes her eyes on Lygon. “You are an honorable man, and you understand both trade and honor, and I hope to enlist your assistance in allaying my concerns.” She raises the hand with the needle slightly to halt his protestation. “What I seek from you will neither cost you coin nor ill will. I seek your words of wisdom with my son, at such time as may be appropriate. That is all.”
“I am no sage, no magician.” Lygon rubs his forehead.
“I have little use for either,” answers Ellindyja dryly. “As you remarked at the dinner the other night, my son faces a difficult situation. Lord Ildyrom has created some difficultiesto the south, while the demon women have seized part of his patrimony in the Westhorns. These women are said to be alluring, not just to men, but to malcontented women here in Lornth.” She pauses. “And all across the western lands, even in Suthya. Would you want women leaving Suthya to create a land ruled by women? How would you trade with them? Would they not favor traders from, say, Spidlar?”
“I could not say. I have not heard of such.” Lygon licks his thick lips.
“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 youcould 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 meat-horse 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.”