The Towers Of the Sunset (14 page)

“Sometimes it’s better left undiscovered,” mumbles Derrild.

“Especially if it involves wizards.” He pauses. “They’re a jealous lot, Creslin.”

“Jealous?” Splooshh… “Willum!”

The brown pitcher has succumbed to the strong arm of young Willum and disgorged redberry across the lower end of the table. “Jarra!”

The white-haired serving woman appears with some rags and mops off the table, presenting a clean rag to Vierdra, who shakes her head and says, “Eating with youngsters is always dangerous.”

Creslin grins, though he is glad that the juice sprayed away from him, and turns his head so that the boy does not see his expression.

Young Willum submits to being patted relatively free of juice, chewing on a large piece of bread the while.

“You going to make any more trips?” asks the dark-bearded but already-balding Waltar.

Creslin shakes his head. “I was glad to be of service, but-”

“Good men are hard to find.”

“Even harder to keep,” adds Derrild. “Somehow, I don’t think the young fellow would be all that happy on the trading runs, even if I could afford to pay what he’s worth.”

“… he’s really good…”

Creslin ignores the words whispered between Derla and Lorcas, breaks off another piece of bread, then ladles out more of the stew.

“There are a few sweets later,” notes Charla. For some reason, Derla coughs, Lorcas blushes; and Hylin grins at Creslin.

Creslin can feel the red creep up his face and reaches for his mug.

“What’s so funny?” demands Willum.

“Nothing… nothing.” But even Vierdra is having a hard time keeping a bland expression on her face.

Waltar sees nothing humorous in the situation, as shown by the sour turn of his lips. “Women…”he mutters, so quietly that only Creslin hears him.

Even Derrild smiles, shaking his head. “To be young again…” Then he looks at Charla, bends close to her, and his lips brush her cheek.

Creslin swallows, realizing he has never seen, never experienced, such banter. He sips the redberry slowly.

The sweets do arrive: a heavy, dark pudding accompanied by thin, honeyed biscuits. Creslin has only a small portion of the pudding, sensing it is far too rich for him. Neither the Marshall nor the guards indulged in such solid sweets, insisting instead on fruit or plain biscuits. He glances toward the end of the table, where most of young Willum’s face is covered with dark goo. He manages not to smile.

“Good!” smacks the boy as he crunches another honey biscuit.

“That’s enough!” snaps Waltar at his son.

Vierdra lays a hand on the man’s sleeve.

“He’s acting like a hog,” mutters Waltar.

“He’s acting like a boy.”

Creslin swallows again, feeling his eyes burn, but not quite understanding why, and takes refuge in another sip of redberry. His glance strays to the small guitar hanging on the wall.

Lorcas’s eyes follow his.

“Do you play, too?”

Creslin snakes his head. “Not well enough to play in public. I used to amuse myself with the music. It seems like a long time ago.”

“Got that guitar in Suthya, years ago,” rumbles Derrild.

“Tyrell could play it, but I think he was the last guard who could. Sometimes I could get Vierdra to strum a melody… you up to that, lass?”

The young mother smiles. “With my friend here? Not tonight, I think.”

Derrild glances around the table, then clears his throat. “Let’s go over to the account room,” he suggests in the silence that has followed his daughter’s polite refusal. “Get that taken care of.” He rises.

Creslin stands, then turns to Charla. “My thanks again, lady, for a tasty and hearty meal.” He steps back. “And to all of you, for making me feel welcome.” He grins at Willum, then turns to follow the trader.

“… no hired blade. Bet he’s a duke’s bastard or something.”

“… that silver hair… you ever see anything like it?”

Both unattached daughters keep their eyes on Creslin even as they rise from their chairs.

Again Creslin ignores the whispers and follows the trader.

Derrild is lighting the oil lamp on the wall of the small room. A set of racked strongboxes fills one short wall, enclosed in a cage of cold iron bands thicker than a man’s wrist. A table and four chairs take up most of the floor space. One chair, the one behind the table, has a thick pillow on the seat.

“Sit down while I get the ledger and tote up the numbers.”

Hylin slouches in a chair; Creslin eases into another. Derrild removes a heavy bound book from above the iron cage.

Hhhmmm… Creslin started on the eighth, off of the Cerlyn road. Let’s say we give him the benefit of the whole leg. That’s be two silvers for straight pay, and another- say, four-for the two attacks, and the two for the black stallion. That’s be eight. We got back with what we started, and no breakage. So there’s a bonus there of half a gold. Say a gold and a half.“

Derrild does not look up as he jots down numbers with the quill, dipping into the ink pot.

“You, Hylin… you get the straight pay, plus four for the attacks and a half gold for the bonus.”

Hylin nods. “Seems fair enough.”

Creslin senses that both men feel the pay is fair, and nods.

“Now, you also get breakfast and a bed, and that’s worth something in this thieving town.” Derrild looks up from the ledger at Creslin with a sad expression on his face. “Those girls of mine, Creslin… well… they think a pretty face and a quick blade’s everything.”

Creslin understands. The trader is bound by his own bargain, and he knows he cannot threaten Creslin. “I understand. You don’t mind a little sweet-talk, but one grandchild’s enough for now.”

Derrild looks at the ledger; the silver-haired youth senses his relief.

Hylin nods, as if to say that he approves.

“One moment, gents. If you’d wait outside…”

They stand, and Creslin follows Hylin out while the trader closes the door, trying not to be too obvious about the bar he sips into place.

“Habit…” Creslin murmurs.

“You’re a strange one, Creslin,” Hylin says slowly. “You don’t know the east, but you act like a prince and fight like a demon, and sometimes I think you can hear what people think… and then you want to risk it all by walking into
Fairhaven.”

“I don’t know that I have any choice. Nobody else can teach me.”

“They might not teach you either… just might want you dead. You better be real careful. Don’t let them think you’re anything but a blade for hire.” What the thin man says makes sense, unfortunately. Too much sense.

“Here you go, gents…”

Derrild hands each man a small leather bag.

Creslin slips the coins from the bag into the inside pocket of his belt, folds the bag, and tucks it into the belt a.so.

“Hylin… can you show Creslin where to sleep?”

“No problem.”

“See you in the morning. I have more to do with the ledgers yet tonight.”

After recovering his pack, Creslin follows Hylin up a narrow stairway from the second level to the third. “We’re at the end of the family quarters.”

The room has two large, if single, beds and an oil lamp in a heavy brass sconce on the wall. A high table with open shelves underneath provides space for packs and other small gear.

“I may see you later.” The thin mercenary sets hi> pack on one end of the high table.

“You’re not sleeping here?”

“That depends… I need to see an old friend.” Hylin grins. “Besides, I’m sure that Derrild’s daughters wouldn’t appreciate me hanging around to interrupt their sweet-talk. Which one do you prefer?”

Creslin shakes his head. “Prefer? I’m-”

Hylin grins again as he walks out, whistling softly. Creslin sits down on the edge of the other bed, listening to the mercenary whistle his way down two flights of stairs before closing a door.

Shortly thereafter, Creslin hears light steps. He listens carefully. He can’t even straighten out his feelings about the nighttime visit-or was it just a dream-by the lady called Megaera, and now he is about to have visitors. A blond head peers in the doorway. Creslin laughs. “Hello, Willum. Come to say good night?” The child’s face is clean and he wears a long nightshirt. “How many men have you killed? Grandpa said you were the greatest blade he ever saw.”

Creslin sighs. “I have killed a few-”

“How many? I’ll bet it’s a whole lot.”

Creslin shakes his head. “It’s better to avoid killing, Willum. Grow up and be a good trader like your grandpa.”

Two other blond heads stand behind the boy.

“Rather profound for someone so young…” Vierdra smiles as she speaks. “Say good night, Willum.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Willum.”

Vierdra scoops up her son and leaves the other blonde, Lorcas, standing in the doorway. She has the small guitar in her hand.

“Why did you say that to Willum? You can’t have killed that many men.”

“Killing one person is too many.” He motions to the bed across from him, then stops. “Would it be better if we went downstairs somewhere?”

Lorcas closes the door softly and sits down on the bed opposite him. Her eyes are brown, Creslin realizes. He also realizes that she has not answered his question.

“Would you consider playing a song or something… ?”

With words phrased that gently, how can he refuse? He slowly takes the guitar, runs his fingers over the strings, realizing that the instrument must have been the property of a master musician.

He tightens the strings until all of the single notes are the hidden silver that he alone seems able to see.

“Something from your home…”

Creslin smiles faintly. He doubts that Lorcas really wants to hear the marching songs of Westwind. What shall he play? For some reason, he recalls a song from the court of Sarronnyn. Slowly, slowly, he begins…

Ask not the song to be sung, or the bell to be rung, or if my tale is done.

The answer is all-and none.

The answer is all-and none.

Oh, white was the color of my love, as bright and white as a dove, and white was he, as fair as she, who sundered my love from me.

Ask not the tale to be done, the rhyme to be rung, or if the sun has sung.

The answer is all-and none.

The answer is all-and none.

Oh, black was the color of my sight, as dark and black as the night, and dark was I, as dark as sky, whose lightning bared the lie.

Ask not the bell to be rung, or the song to be sung, or if my tale is done.

The answer is all-and none.

The answer is all-and none.

He lets the words of the short song die away, and stands. He places the guitar on the high table, then resumes his seat on the edge of the bed.

Lorcas leans forward. “Where are you from, really?”

Creslin decides to discourage her by telling the truth. “The Roof of the World. Westwind.”

“I thought the women were the fighters there.” Her forehead wrinkles in perplexity. Then she brushes a stray wisp of hair back over her ears and smiles.

“They are.”

“But you’re a blade. Hylin said that you’re the only blade he’d run from. He never runs. Father watches you like a vulcrow.”

“It’s a long story.”

She edges from where she sits and slips over next to him. “We have time. Hylin won’t be back, and Vierdra won’t say anything.”

“Your father?”

“Mother has him in hand.”

Creslin smiles wryly. Some things don’t seem to be much different in the east.

“My name is Creslin, and I was bom in the
Black
Tower
… the trials? Now… I suppose they knew-” He answers her questions. “Aemris never liked teaching me the blade. Heldra, I know, had her own reasons-One whom I liked? There was Fiera, but she was a guard first… mostly,” he amends, thinking of that single kiss outside the
Black
Tower
.

Lorcas continues to sit next to him, warm and soft, as he details his rather short life. She still wears the blue tunic she had worn to dinner, although now her hair is completely unbound.

He finds that his arm has gone around her waist as they have leaned back to rest against the pillows and the wall. Some things he had not mentioned, like Sarronnyn, or the midnight visit of Megaera.

“You really are a prince?”

He laughs gently, glad for the moment to lie next to someone who will listen. “No. It doesn’t work quite like that. Only Llyse can be the next
Marshall, if she has the ability. She needn’t have the best blade, but she has to be as good as any senior guard, and she has to know trade, tactics… everything.”

“You like your sister?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes she’s just like the
Marshall.”

“Why don’t you ever call her mother?”

“She never let me.”

“But… it sounds like she risked a lot to get you trained.”

“If you look at it that way.” Creslin pauses, leans his head against Lorcas’s cheek, closes his eyes for a moment, then forces them open. “I don’t think I can talk much longer.”

“Don’t.” She turns to him, her arms going around him as he slides back, enjoying her softness against him, her lips on his, his arms around her.

That time comes when he must release her, and he does.

She draws away gently. “If you hadn’t promised…”

His mouth drops open.

“You think we don’t know what Father’s up to?” Her words are gentle, but not mocking. Then she kisses him again before speaking. “Besides, there’s a princess out there for you, and you deserve her.”

“But-”

“Think about me. Often…”

Lorcas is gone almost as quietly as she has come, and Creslin understands the phrase “women…” delivered with a headshake, just a little better.