The Tears of the Sun by S. M. Stirling

not dishonor it.”
    â€œOi can still make ’em, just slower loik,” the old man said, and waved away her thanks.
    Then he winced and halted the motion.
    â€œDon’t you fuss at me too, girl,” he said sharply as she came forward with a frown on her face.
    â€œI’m not fussing, I’m finding out what’s wrong!” she said sharply, and pressed down on his shoulder.
    He winced again, but was silent long enough for her to probe the muscles along the ridges of his spine with ruthless fingers.
    â€œAll right, good father,” she said briskly. “On your face. This bench will do.”
    â€œThank you, girl, but—”
    â€œBut nothing. I grew up on a farm too, old man; do you think I’ve never seen a man who’s pulled his back before? And I know what to do. I’ve done it often enough for my father and my brothers!”
    The glare turned to a wry nod. “Oi wonder if my boy knows what ’e’s gotten ’isself into,” he said, and obeyed. “Damned if Oi don’t loik you, girl. You go straight at things.”
    â€œSee if you like me so well after I’m finished; this is going to hurt,” she said.
    Asgerd looked along the bottles and jars racked behind the workbench. There would be oil, and . . .
    Her nose led her to a small vial. “Wintergreen, good,” she said. “Too strong, though. I’ll mix it with some oil. Now let’s get to work.”
    She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and did. Her father-in-law’s breath caught once or twice, but he made no other sound. When she was finished he sat up cautiously and worked his shoulders while she cleaned her hands on a rag.
    â€œBelieve that’s eased it,” he said.
    â€œNow go and rest for a few hours,” she said; when he bridled, she shook a finger in his face. “You wouldn’t overburden a piece of wood, why do you think your spine is any different? Do just as you please, good father, but if you don’t rest now you’ll be stiff as driftwood tomorrow again, and as brittle.”
    He laughed softly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and got up.
    The door from the inner house opened, and a faded woman in her fifties with yellow-brown hair liberally streaked with gray came in. She was not in the usual Mackenzie kilt, but in the shift and tartan arsaid that older woman often preferred—an arsaid wrapped around the waist to make a long skirt under a belt, and then one end was thrown over the shoulder and pinned. She was taking off the apron she’d worn over that, and dabbing at a flush of sweat on her face with a corner of it that wasn’t stained or flourcoated.
    â€œSam?” she said. “Are you all right the now?”
    â€œBetter than Oi was, luv,” he said.
    His expression made the leathery weathered surface of his face crinkle into a web of wrinkles, but also made it seem younger too as he smiled at his wife. His daughter-in-law could feel the love there, not much spoken but as comfortable as a low fire of coals on a cold day.
    â€œAsgerd ’ere gave me back a bit of a rub, where it were stiff this last while. Now I’ll ’ave a nap, if you can spare me. Be fresh for the big dinner, eh?”
    The woman blinked. “That’s a fine idea, we’ll be eating about sundown. Nola and Nigel are in their truckle beds there too, be careful not to wake them, now. It was hard enough to get them asleep and out from underfoot.”
    â€œOi will, luv. They sleep ’ard as they play, at that age, eh?”
    She looked after him and shook her head, then looked at Asgerd. Blue eyes met blue.
    â€œWell, and how did you manage that ? Without clouting him hard enough to crack the thick stubborn skull of him, to be sure.”
    Asgerd ducked her head. Edain’s mother was mistress of this household, and she knew her manners.
    â€œGood mother, I . . . I just told him I’d been raised on a