The Towers Of the Sunset (25 page)

THE THREE SPIDLARIAN mercenaries rein in at the seawall. Creslin follows their example, as does Megaera. Up the muddy road that leads to the rolling hills and the site of the attack by the Certan light horse, there are no horsemen, but there will be.

The cold rain beats around them, but not upon them. While the Spidlarians mumble, they do not protest the protection Creslin has afforded them. His senses expand to the cold sea breeze that flows in off the whitecaps beyond the too-short breakwater; it is almost a winter wind, carrying moisture barely warm enough to be rain and not ice.

Megaera shivers under a thin cloak, and her face is pale as she follows Creslin’s eyes toward the pier.

Tyrhavven is a poor excuse for a harbor, large enough for only a few coasters and an occasional Hamorian trader, and nearly useless in the winters. While ice chokes the Spidlarian ports, Tyrhavven is south of the ice line, not far enough south for clear water, yet far enough that the ice floes and bergs could be avoided-if not for the combination of winds, tides, and waves.

Poor harbor or not, it is Montgren’s sole outlet to the sea, and that only because of the treaty negotiated through the Tyrant of Sarronnyn.

Of the two ships moored at the pier, one is a sloop flying the Montgren banner, smaller than a coaster, her sails furled. The other is a two-masted war schooner bearing a white triangle within a black circle. A pair of guards in white-enameled copper breastplates flanks the gangway.

“Wonderful.” Creslin’s hand strays toward the sword in his shoulder harness, then drops. “Now what?”

“They won’t do a thing here,” observes Megaera.

“We just walk on board?”

“Why not?” She laughs. “It’s better than sitting here and freezing.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Of course it’s not. Once we’re on board, they’ll send at least one assassin. If we clear the harbor, they’ll follow, and when we’re out of sight of witnesses, our ship will catch fire and sink. That’s why cousin dear insisted on sending a messenger separately, and slightly later.”

“If we don’t make it, almost no one will know. Is that it?” Megaera nods.

“We will make it.”

“There are at least twenty White warriors on the ship, and another ship waits somewhere. They’re expecting us.”

“You took that-” he points to the Montgren sloop “-from Sarronnyn?”

“No. I bounced here on a Suthyan coaster. It was bigger, heavier, and slower. The Duke didn’t want to risk one of his two ships. And of course sister dear did not press him.”

“Let’s go and visit.”

Megaera shrugs. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Do you have a better one?”

“After the way you treated the wizard’s road guards and the Certan light-horse squad?”

“What was I supposed to do? The last time I visited
Fairhaven wasn’t especially healthful for me.”

“You think it was much better for me?”

“You weren’t out of your mind and hauling rocks with an infected foot and everyone hoping you’d die.” -

“No. I was just out of my mind, feeling every agony and wishing you’d get it over with.”

“Ahem…” interrupts the thin-faced mercenary, lifting a document case bearing their warrants and right - of - passage.

Creslin looks back through the rain toward the hills. There is still no sign of the eventual pursuit. He gestures toward the document case. “Once you’ve delivered that and we’re assured passage, your job is done.”

“The lady is… our charge.”

Creslin turns to Megaera. “Then let them go. They’re your guards.”

“Me? A mere woman? Compared to the great Storm Wizard?”

“You’re the sub-Tyrant,” Creslin reminds her.

A cough breaks the silence.

“Lady?”

“Go.” Megaera’s sigh has an edge to it.

Creslin ponders what he did wrong… again.

“Everything,” she replies.

“Let’s go talk to the captain.”

“In a moment. Let the man do his work.” Megaera dismounts and ties the horse to the railing. She glances up at Creslin, still on the chestnut he has ridden nearly three hundred kays over the past eight-day. Then she takes a comb and begins to repair the wind damage to her hair.

“What do we do with the horses?” Creslin slips off his mount, his eyes flicking to the rain-swept pier, where the mercenary has begun to board the sloop.

“They come. It won’t be comfortable for them, but cousin has a set of stalls on the ship. On every trip, a pan-is sent. He had hoped in time, to build up a full cavalry troop on Montgren.” She laughs harshly. “It is rather difficult when you have only two small ships.” The comb disappears.

“So why did he agree to naming us regents?”

“Why not? If we’re powerful enough to survive and to hold Reduce, he couldn’t stop us. And he needs the support of Sarronnyn.” A ragged smile crosses her lips. “And he knows we’re strong enough to cause the wizards more than a little trouble. It might cost him one ship. Already, he’s doing well. How many troops and wizards have you destroyed?” She pauses. “For a Black Wizard, you’re awfully creative at getting around the chaos limits.”

“Chaos limits?”

“If you want to stay a Black, you can’t use fire or anything else that breaks things apart. That’s calling on chaos.”

“Can’t a great wizard do both?”

“Doing both calls for a Gray Wizard-part White, part Black. They say there have been only one or two Gray Wizards ever. And not in years. One of the books I smuggled past sister dear said that trying to handle both order and chaos is the most dangerous of all because the guidelines change from situation to situation.” She looks toward the pier. “We need to walk the horses down there.”

Creslin follows her lead, his eyes taking in the mercenary and the man in green and gold standing on the deck and gesturing toward the Spidlarian. The captain’s gestures are hardly encouraging.

The Spidlarian tenders the dispatch case, points toward Creslin and Megaera and bows, backing away politely.

The pier is short, and they arrive by the unguarded gangway as the mercenary steps back onto the pier.

“Our charge is done, ser, lady.” He bows again.

Creslin returns the bow, then hands the man a gold. “I wish it could be more, but-”

With a lopsided smile, the mercenary takes the coin. “You’ve gotten us through, ser, when few could have. My life is worth a bit more than the gold, but I appreciate the thoughtfulness. Have a good voyage.” He bows again, then strides back down the pier toward the horse being held by one of the other two Spidlarians.

“Synder!”

Creslin ignores the captain’s bellow and looks at Megaera. “What about the horses?”

As he speaks, a youngster scuttles to the top of the gangway.

“Synder! Get the horses!”

“Yes, Captain.”

The captain looks at the two on the pier. Creslin smiles, sensing the man’s discomfort. “Let’s go.” Megaera shrugs but follows him up the unrailed gangplank.

“Name’s Freigr. I’m the captain of the
Griffin, subject to the Duke’s orders, of course.” The clean-shaven captain wears a green-and-gold surcoat, and flint-gray eyes inspect his passengers.

“Creslin, and this is Megaera, the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.”

“You claim no title, ser?” asks the captain with a half-smile.

“He’s the consort of Westwind,” explains Megaera, “but he claims that doesn’t count as a title.”

The captain nods. “According to this-” he raises the dispatch case “-you have been appointed the Duke’s co-regents in Reduce, and I am requested to provide your transportation.” His eyes wander toward the first horse being led on board. “You have other baggage?”

“Only what is packed on the horses.”

“For regents, you travel light.”

Creslin shrugs. “Most of my belongings either remained in Westwind or found their way into the hands of the White Wizards.”

Megaera smiles brightly but adds nothing.

“The Duke’s cabin is, of course, yours,” Freigr says blandly, his right hand smoothing down his short-cut and thinning sandy hair. “But our fare will be rather simple.”

Creslin grins. “I’m not used to rich food.”

“At Westwind, I’d guess not. And your lady?”

Megaera’s eyes flash and her lips tighten, but she says only, “I rather doubt that I will find it any problem. But… I am not exactly his lady, since he is from Westwind and I am from Sarronnyn.”

The captain’s eyebrows lift.

Creslin explains. “She is far more important than I, Captain. The Tyrant of Sarronnyn is her sister, and my sister will be the one to hold Westwind.”

“Ah, I see, I think.” Freigr turns momentarily. “Synder! Put the gray in the port stall. It’s smaller.”

Creslin tries to sense what Megaera is feeling, but she appears walled off behind a shield of gray-a whiteness shot through with black lines-that he can sense but not see.

“Yet the Duke named you co-regents.”

“The Duke is an eastern male ruler.” Megaera’s voice is chill.

Freigr scratches the back of his head.

“Perhaps we could move our bags to the cabin,” suggests Creslin.

“Ah, yes. That might be best.” Freigr starts toward the single raised deck at the stern.

Creslin halts Synder and the gray horse in order to reclaim Megaera’s belongings.

“Go ahead, ser. We’ll bring them down,” suggests Synder.

“Thank you.” Creslin nods and rejoins the captain and Megaera. He has to lower his head as they enter the narrow passageway.

“The Duke’s cabin is on this side, opposite mine. This is the mess room, and the galley’s opposite.”

The captain cannot stand upright, and Creslin’s head touches the bracing beams of the ceiling as the three edge into the low-ceilinged space.

The Duke’s cabin-less than eight cubits square- contains two bunks, one over the other, set against the forward bulkhead. The bunk frames are carved from red oak, and each bears an ornate green-and-gold coverlet. A built-in, shoulder-high chest is on the right-hand side of the bunks, and a narrow wardrobe is crowded between the bunks and the sloop’s hull.

Creslin rubs his nose to stop the itching from the faint mustiness that pervades the cabin. A heavy circular table bolted to the deck and three wooden armchairs upholstered in green and gold fill most of the space. The carving on the chairs matches that on the bunks. An ornate chamber pot rests in one corner.

Two portholes offer the only light, although there is one unlit brass oil lamp hanging from the beam above the table.

“Not exactly the most suitable for a newly wed couple,” apologizes the captain, “what with the separate bunks… but a sight better than accommodations on most coasters.”

“It’s very nice,” insists Megaera with an amused smile.

“Appreciate the hospitality,” adds Creslin.

Heavy steps on the planks presage the arrival of two sailors bearing Creslin’s pack and Megaera’s baggage.

“Just set them down,” Megaera says.

“Set them there,” echoes Freigr. The captain waits until the two men depart. “Tide’s not really a problem here, and the wind’s right. We’ve got what we need; been waiting for the Duke’s orders. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to-”

“That’s fine. When do you expect we’ll leave?”

“This afternoon, if I can drag three of the boys out of town. In the meantime, you might enjoy yourselves.” Freigr smiles broadly at Creslin and closes the door.

“Enjoy ourselves! That… you… men!” Megaera unfastens her travel cloak with deliberation.

“I think he was assuming that we are… the usual… newly married-” Creslin finds that he is blushing.

“Stop it! It’s bad enough that we had to get married to save your wretched neck.”

“My wretched neck?”

“It was the only way to save mine, thanks to sister dear and your darling mother the Marshall. But it is your neck.”

“You weren’t exactly beloved in Sarronnyn.”

Megaera begins to rummage through the topmost of her bags. Creslin reclaims his pack and places it on the top bunk.

“You could have asked,” she says dourly.

Creslin picks up the pack. “Which one do you want?”

“The bottom is fine.”

He grins.

“I don’t need your crass comments.” Fire glows at Megaera’s fingertips.

“Never mind.” Creslin places his pack back on the top bunk. “I’m going out on deck.”

AS THE SAILORS loosen the hawsers, Creslin watches the activities. Megaera has appeared, still gray but without the cloak now that the rain has lifted. Her face and hands are freshly clear of the grime of travel.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Next, I think…”

Creslin’s attention drops away from Megaera’s words as his eyes center on a wavering of the light; it resembles a snow mirage, or the summer heat mirages from the black stone roads leading to the Roof of the World. Although his eyes insist that nothing is there, the winds tell him that a man stands behind the twisted light, a man who has walked up the gangway just before it was hauled aboard. Creslin, short sword leaping into his hand, walks slowly toward the figure behind the light shield.

“Creslin?” Megaera’s voice turns from conversational to sharp as she sees the sword, and her eyes widen as she senses what he senses.

The distortion vanishes, and a thin, black-haired man in black-black shirt, tunic, trousers, and faded black traveling cloak-stands on the deck, his empty hands palms up. On his back is a bulging pack of leather and canvas.

Creslin does not sheath the sword, but waits.

“My name is Klerris. I thought you might need some assistance, and you’re going in a direction that might be beneficial.”

Klerris? The name is vaguely familiar, but Creslin cannot place it.

“I’m generally thought of as a Black healer, and often I have helped with injuries to the road crews.”

The healer who had helped restore Creslin’s memory had mentioned the name. “Where is she?” Slowly, he replaces the sword.

“Lydya? On her way to Westwind. The White Wizards are not exactly pleased with either of us at the moment.”

Megaera glances from Klerris to Creslin and back again. “Would one of you mind explaining?”

As she speaks, the last of the lines is cast free; the
Griffin swings away from the pier and, under partial sail, glides past the
Fairhaven schooner and toward the open sea. On the war schooner, white-clad sailors are busily moving about, as if preparing to follow the
Griffin.

“There was a healer at the road camp,” answers Creslin slowly, studying the schooner; it bears the name Lightning on a plate above the stern. “She helped me get my memory back. She mentioned the name of Klerris.”

“Does that make this man the same Klerris?” asks Megaera.

“Not necessarily,” admits Creslin. “But I can’t see any benefit to impersonating a Black Wizard, and he certainly isn’t a White Wizard.”

“Perhaps this would help,” suggests Klerris, extending his hand. In it rests a heavy linked-gold chain. “Yours, I believe.”

Creslin takes the chain, studies, it, notes the twist to the links. “Thank you.”

“Lydya recovered it when you were brought into the camp. She thought you might need it.”

“That’s worth a fortune,” Megaera notes coolly, “assuming it’s real.”

“Touch it. It’s real.” Creslin sways as the deck lurches.

Megaera’s fingers brush the gold.

Outside the breakwater, the seas are heavier, but the sailors breaking out the full rigging of the sloop have no trouble with either footing or coordination.

“The first part of the trip is the roughest,” offers Klerris.

“Oh?” Megaera’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve made this voyage before?”

“Darkness, no. But the winds are higher north and west of the gulfs, and the northern seas harbor the storms.”

Creslin steps to the rail and grasps the worn wood. His senses go out to the
Fairhaven schooner, which glows with the whiteness he has come to associate with the White Wizards. Megaera is also correct in her estimations, for more than a score of the white-clad warriors ready their weapons.

Abruptly a white, shining mist envelops the schooner, invisible but seeming to bar Creslin from seeing anything beyond what his eyes could see from outside the Lightning.

“He’s shielded their ship,” Megaera notes.

“I discovered that.”

“Could you enlighten me as to your companion?” The captain stands behind Klerris.

“Oh, this is Klerris,” Creslin says.

Freigr inclines his head. “The passages didn’t mention you.”

“The Duke did not expect me.”

Freigr shakes his head, then turns to Creslin. “The Lightning will be on our tail before long.”

“Is she that fast?” asks Klerris.

“Not so fast as the
Griffin.”

Creslin looks at the captain. “You look like you have a question.”

“Yes,” Freigr says. “How do you propose to save us? The Duke’s orders indicated that you would provide protection for the ship.”

“You just said that your ship is faster than the schooner.” It is clear to the silver-haired man that Freigr is considering his options.

Freigr smiles but only with his mouth. “I’m not worried about that schooner. I’m worried about the one that left the Great North Bay and will meet us in the gulf.”

“Why?”

Freigr gestures toward the stern and the diminishing white triangle that is all they can see of the
Fairhaven schooner. “That’s the way they always do it. We all know about it.” He shrugs. “But what can you do? The wizards talk. That schooner would be hard-pressed to take us, even if they caught us. The one in the bay will bear a full wizard, and generally a White one, in this sort of thing, is worth two Black ones.” He nods to Klerris. “They must have guessed that you would be here, or they know.”

“I’m a healer,” Klerris admits. “Most uses of order aren’t helpful in war. The lady will be of more use.”

Freigr looks toward the bow, where Megaera’s hair whips back over her shoulders. Spray sheets past the redhead as the
Griffin’s bow digs into a swell. Megaera regards the southeastern horizon without turning.

“I’ve got three of you on board?”

“Happily, yes,” responds Klerris.

“Three?” mutters the captain. “If I ever get back to see Korweil… Three frigging wizards. There’ll be at least two ships out of the Great North Bay, and me on a lousy sloop.”

“How long?” asks Creslin tiredly.

“What?”

“How long before they arrive?”

“Not until the day after tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps even late the following day. It all depends on the winds in the gulf, and whether they have their own Air Wizard.”

The ship lurches again, and Creslin finds that his stomach is not exactly where he thinks it is. His guts intend to turn themselves inside out. He refuses to give in to nausea and swallows, but the leaden feeling weighs at him. He can ride ill-mannered horses and ski ice-covered slopes… why should a simple ship leave him feeling sick?

Finally he hangs on to the railing, letting the cool wind bathe his flushed face.

“You all right?” asks the Black Wizard, stepping up beside him, carefully upwind.

“No.”

“Can you listen to me?” Another sheet of spray flies past. “I guess so.”

“Then listen…” Klerris edges slightly farther toward the bow.

Creslin burps, hoping that will help. It does not. The bow dips into another swell, and his stomach tightens even more.

“Urrrppp…”

“That won’t help. Are you sure that you can listen?”

“I’ll try.”

“The clouds, the winds, the rain… all of them are related. Every time you grasp for the high, cold winds, you change something. The storm you created to get to Montgren deprived the farmers of Kyphros of rain for more than two eight-days. The fog and thunderstorm you used to fight your way into Tyrhavven will probably bring a hard and early winter onto most of
Sligo. The rain that kept falling while we left was your doing.”

“My doing?”

“Don’t you listen? When you pull the winds from one place, air from someplace else has to move.”

“Ohhh?”

“Think of it this way,” Klerris persists, his voice hard. “The air we breathe is just like the ocean. It’s an ocean of air. Can you take a bucket of water out of the ocean without water pouring into the space you took it from?”

Creslin doesn’t like thinking about an ocean of air. The ocean of water is giving him enough difficulty. “No,” he finally admits.

“When you shift the winds, you shift the ocean of air. The more you change it, the more you stir things up.”

“I was supposed to let them kill us?” Creslin forgets that his stomach is twisting.

“I never said that. That’s your guilt, not mine.”

“What do you want?”

“Your understanding, and to teach you how to use what you have.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Klerris smiles softly, sadly. “As you wish.” He turns and leaves Creslin at the railing.

Creslin, watching the swells, lets the cold salt air wash over him as the day begins to fade.