The Towers Of the Sunset (44 page)

WITH A SINGLE sail in place, the Sligan coaster edges through the heavy chop and past the breakwater. A crewman on the bowsprit tosses a light line to one of the guards standing pier watch by the deep-water bollard.

Below the Sligan ensign there flies another banner, one of crossed black and silver lightnings on the azure.

Why would a Sligan coaster be flying the Westwind banner? Creslin is practically running down the hill road now, his steps dodging the deeper puddles as he dashes through the light rain. He can think of only one answer, and it is not one he wishes to face.

Behind him, Hyel and Shierra exchange glances. “You’d better let Megaera know.”

“She’ll already know that he’s upset,” Shierra observes.

“But not necessarily why.”

“You’re right. We’re going to have more guards, though. That’s for certain.”

“More-”

“Don’t groan so loudly.”

Hyel grins. “Are you coming?”

“I might as well.”

They follow Creslin’s steps in time to catch up with him before the coaster is fully secured at the deep-water end of the pier.

“Do you want to explain?” asks Hyel as he steps up beside Creslin.

Creslin points to the deck, where Westwind guards stand in loose order.

“I still-” Hyel begins.

“I see what you mean,” interjects Shierra. “I hope they aren’t all that’s left.”

“You think that’s what it means?” Hyel asks Creslin.

“The
Marshall’s dead. Llyse is dead, and Ryessa has been moving troops eastward into the Westhorns. If Westwind still existed, there wouldn’t be three squads coming to Reduce.” Creslin’s words are hard, solid.

The coaster is made fast as her heavyset captain gestures silent orders to a quick-moving crew. Several men glance sideways at the guards, moving around them as necessary.

As the gangway is swung into the stones, a blond guard marches down the planks. She steps past Hyel and halts before Shierra. “Squad Leader Fiera reporting.”

The hardness of her voice tears at Creslin, and he swallows, waiting.

“Report.” Shierra’s voice is as hard as her sister’s.

“Three full squads. Also ten walking wounded, five permanently disabled, and twenty consorts and children. Three deaths since embarkation in Rulyarth. We also bring some supplies, weapons, and tools… and what is left of the Westwind treasury.”

“Report accepted, Squad Leader.” Shierra turns. “May I present you to Regent Creslin? Squad Leader Fiera.”

Creslin nods solemnly. “Honor bright, Squad Leader. You have paid a great price, and great is the honor you bestow upon us through your presence. Few have paid a higher price than you.” He hates the formality of his speech but can offer her nothing besides the ritual, nothing to compare to her travails. At the same time, he remembers a single kiss beneath the tower called Black, and he swallows, for he knows one reason why he now possesses the guards and the Westwind treasury.

“Will you accept the presentation of your heritage, your grace? For you are all that remains of the glory and power of Westwind.”

“I can do no less, and I will accept it in the spirit in which it is offered.” His eyes meet hers, and he lowers his voice. “But never would I have wished this. Even long ago, I wished otherwise.” That is as much as he dares to voice on the pier, but it must be said.

“We know that, your grace.” Fiera swallows. “By your leave, Regent?” Her face is tear-streaked.

“The keep is yours Squad Leader, as is all that we have. We are in your debt, in the angels, and in the Legend’s.”

“And we in yours, Regent.” Tears continue to seep from the young, hard face, but the voice is like granite.

“Form up! On the pier!” snaps Shierra, her voice carrying to the coaster.

The guards file off the battered and damp-decked ship; the drizzle continues to blanket both ship and pier.

“What was all that about?” whispers Hyel to Creslin.

Creslin swallows and blots his forehead, and eyes, with the back of his hand. Finally he steps back to the other side of the pier, away from where Fiera and Shierra preside over the disembarkation of the Westwind guards. Hyel follows him.

For a time, Creslin looks out at the ocean, struggling to regain his composure. “That’s… they’re… all that’s left…”

“Of what?” Hyel queries.

“Of Westwind.” Creslin turns abruptly and steps back beside the two sisters, watching as the guards disembark and the crew begins the off-loading.

Several carts roll toward the pier, their passage clearly organized by Megaera, who will-must, unhappily- understand the lead in his heart.

SITTING IN THE wooden armchair with its back to the pair of bunks, Creslin studies the parchment sheets; Gossel studies Creslin; Megaera looks at neither.

Finally Creslin lifts his eyes. “You need ten golds. That’s what you spent over the loss allowance.”

“The ten golds-they aren’t that important.” Gossel clears his throat. “The holds were nearly always full. Most of the time, break-even is around half-full.”

Creslin pushes the chair back and stands, ducking at the last minute to clear the low timber bracing the cabin’s ceiling. “You brought back more than expected. And the lot of oak seedlings… Lydya is more than pleased with that.”

“And I appreciate the cobalt,” Megaera adds.

Gossel looks down at the inlaid crest on the table, the crest of a duchy that exists only in memory. “It isn’t going to work, ser. Begging your pardon, it won’t. Not unless things change.” He takes a draft from the smudged goblet, then pours from the cloudy glass bottle that is from Megaera’s glassworks.

“You seem to have thought this out.” Megaera’s voice is gentle. “Why do you feel that way?”

“It’s like this, your grace. I know the traders, like the Ruziosis… Klyen and I served under his uncle. That was before Freigr offered me the number-one and when the Duke was talking about building a real merchant fleet. Anyways, Klyen middled for me in Renklaar-just this one time-because the Whites hadn’t put out the word, but the declaration came out just after we loaded on everything but the trees. My boys had to load those themselves, even had to clean the pier, because it’s like the theft decree-”

“Theft decree?”

Gossel glances at Megaera. “Lift a hand to help Reduce, like a thief, and you lose that hand. Doesn’t matter what’s right, but Klyen can’t help again, leastwise not in Renklaar or anywhere east of the Westhorns. As for Nordla, the
Griffin’s a good ship, but small to cross the entire
Eastern
Ocean
, and…”

“How could we guarantee any protection?”

Gossel takes another sip from the goblet.

“So… we have to go at least as far as Southwind or Suthya to trade? Is that it?” asks Megaera.

“Yes, your grace. I don’t know as that’d work… maybe for the Dawnstar. Freigr’s got enough hold for the bulk stuff.” Gossel takes another swallow from the goblet. “See, everyone wants the expensive stuff, but there’s not much of it, and you try to sell it all at once and then the price drops. But ships come only every so often. That’s how the trading houses work. They stock the spices and silks and jewels, but they sell only a bit at a time. Keeps the price up that way. With the decree, only the smugglers’d touch our stuff, and their rates are much lower… wouldn’t even cover our costs.”

“We didn’t lose that much,” Creslin points out.

“One ship in three is lost every couple of years.”

“You’re saying that we can trade for a little while, even through the smugglers, but that it will raise costs-”

“A lot. Do that, and you have to pay the crew bonus money. You also need to ship marines or some sort of guards. Otherwise, smugglers’ll just take you, ship and all.”

Creslin shakes his head. “Clever of the Whites. Just punish anyone who takes our goods. That kills legal trade, and the economics kill most of the smuggled stuff.”

“I don’t see why. Smuggling’s been around for centuries,” protests Megaera.

“What’s smuggled, your grace? Weapons, drugs, jewels. Maybe art for a patron in Austra who isn’t too picky, or sometimes some brandy or whiskey-distilled stuff, you know. We’re buying weapons, and we don’t have jewels, let alone art.” Gossel lifts the goblet. “Now, if you could make a brandy out of this green-juice wine or whatever it is. But…” he shrugs… “we don’t have much of the stuff the smugglers want.”

“I see,” Megaera says pensively.

Creslin sees too. “Let us think about it.” He stands, reaching for his too-empty purse.

“No, ser. The coins are nothing. You made me a ship’s master, and that’s worth more than a few golds.” Gossel squares his shoulders.

“That’s why you’re worried?” Megaera asks softly.

“Aye, your grace. The
Griffin, small as she is-”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Megaera’s eyes reach Creslin’s, but only for a moment, as his anger and frustration wash over her. She stands up.

Gossel’s head is down and he remains seated, still looking at the table, almost unaware that both regents are ready to leave.

“We will do something, Gossel.” Creslin pauses. “And we appreciate the honesty and the fair warning.”

They leave the cabin without further words. Gossel corks the bottle and racks it, then downs the last of the goblet.

As they cross the deck, Megaera looks at Creslin. “Why are you so angry? We’ve got trading crops. We’ll even have some wool, and Avalari is beginning to turn out some decent goblets and other fancy glassware. Now that we can color some of it, it should sell well, certainly in Suthya, and perhaps even in
South Kyphros. They don’t pay much attention to the Whites there.”

Creslin nods to the mate supervising the deck work, and both he and Megaera are rewarded with a casual salute. “Good day, your graces.”

“Good day.”

“Good day.”

Creslin grins at their simultaneous responses, then so- bers. “Fine, you’re producing splendid goblets, and most of the fall spice crop will survive. We send it south and we get half of what it’s worth. We try to send it east, and what’s to keep the Hamorians from seizing the Dawnstar? It was theirs once, after all.”

“You think they would?”

“I don’t know. Can we afford to risk it now? We can last for a while, even though losing a few golds, as long as we get the goods… and as long as we don’t lose a ship. Or too many crops. Or get too many more refugees.” Creslin’s footsteps echo on the stones of the pier.

“Did what Fiera brought help?” Megaera brushes her hair back over her right ear.

Creslin laughs harshly. “Help? We’d be at the edge without that chest. But what other miracles can we expect? And at what price?” He shakes his head. “She’s sharp, sharper in some ways than Shierra.”

“Oh…is that because you once loved her?” Megaera looks at the open window of the public room as they walk toward the stable, where Vola and Kasma wait.

“Some jealousy there? At least she has brains, unlike that perfumed fop Dreric.”

“Best-beloved, I know what you felt toward Fiera. How could I not… on the pier?”

The combination of pain and anger stills his tongue more than the coldness of her words. “I’m sorry. It still hurts. She gave us everything, and… what can I return?”

“She knows that. And you did give her something. Everyone saw the grief and lost love on your face there on the pier. In time, that will help.”

Their feet echo on the stones leading to the Inn stable.

“What I meant was that she saw, right at the time, that Westwind was doomed, and she moved everything she could.” Creslin turns toward the stable door.

“Was it truly doomed?”

“Yes. What was left in the treasury, after they chartered the coaster and paid for all the cargo they brought wouldn’t have been enough for the winter supplies. The Whites also killed most of the sheep, and you can’t rebuild flocks in a year, the way you can with a bad field crop.” He pauses in the open stable door.

“Sometimes…”

“Sometimes what?”

“Nothing.” Megaera steps toward the stall and Kasma.

Creslin leads out the black and swings into the saddle. He does not need to wait, for Megaera has matched his actions, and they ride toward the keep.

His eyes traverse the town. Three or four more houses have sprung up on the hillside below the keep, and the warehouse promised by the two stonemasons rises perhaps two hundred cubits east of the inn.

At times,
Land’s End almost resembles a town.

“HALLO!” CRESLIN’S VOICE echoes through the still-empty public room.

“Hold to! Hold to!” grumbles a voice.

Despite the emptiness, the tables are clean and the stone floor has been freshly swept. Chairs and benches stand ready for the customers that the afternoon will bring, for there are no ships in the harbor, and no one from the town or the keep has time to while away in the earlier part of the day.

“We’re not open-oh, your grace.” The narrow-faced woman inclines her head to him.

“I know. I need to buy a bottle of that green-juice wine.”

“That… ? Green juice?”

Creslin can’t help smiling. “I want to see what can be done with it. The tartness has possibilities, I’m told.”

“That swill? There be no understanding tastes, your grace.” The woman turns back into the kitchen with an iron key in her hand. “Be just a moment, your grace.” After the rasping release of a heavy lock, a clanking of bottles, and the re locking of the storeroom, she returns and thrusts two bottles at him. “Two’d be strong enough for any lightning spell.”

“Too strong, I suspect. What do I owe you?”

“Not a copper, your grace. Can’t be charging the owner, now can we?”

“Thank you.”

The woman is still shaking her head as Creslin departs.

Outside, he places a bottle in each empty saddlebag, then mounts and turns Vola toward the Black Holding.

The clouds to the east have begun to part, revealing clean, blue-green sky, almost as crystal as that viewed from the Roof of the World. Creslin swallows and continues uphill.

The holding is empty. He supposes that Aldonya and Lynnya are buying yet more fish for dinner and that Megaera is at the glassworks.

Once in the study, Creslin opens one of the bottles and pours the contents into four tumblers. After studying the first tumbler, he concentrates. Half of the liquid vanishes, and there is a small puddle on the stone floor.

“Oh… clean that up later,” he mumbles. He sniffs the remainder of the liquid in the tumbler. “Not that much different.” With even the smallest of sips, his eyes water at the sour bite of the distilled green-juice wine. “Whuuu…”

He tries again, with the second tumbler, and with the third and fourth. Then he walks out of the study and into the sunlight on the terrace. Some of the stones are still damp from the night’s mists, but the heat of the early fall sun promises to dry them before long.

A raw alcoholic beverage he does have, but not one that most would drink, let alone pay for. Where does he go now? Aging is almost a function of chaos, not of order.

Below the terrace, the waves sweep across the beach at the base of the cliff, polishing the sands with their ceaseless ebb and flow.

Polishing? Creslin walks swiftly back into the study, where he concentrates on both order-distilling and polishing.

He pours the liquid from the tumblers back into the bottle. Perhaps two thirds of the bottle is filled with a translucent green fluid.

He resaddles Vola, and the single bottle goes back into a saddlebag, to be taken to the keep. Along the way, he makes several quick stops, arranging for a meeting.

Later, in the early afternoon, Shierra, Lydya, Megaera, Klerris, and Hyel sit around the table in the keep.

“You wanted us here,” Megaera says. For what… best-beloved?

Creslin pours a small quantity from the bottle into several goblets and presses a goblet upon each. “Just taste this… carefully.”

Megaera raises an eyebrow at her husband. Hyel frowns. Shierra looks from Hyel to Megaera. Lydya keeps her mouth still, but her eyes twinkle, while Klerris lifts his goblet without comment.

“… strong.”

“Pretty good… tangy.”

“Smooth and bitter…”

“Decent brandy…”

“What is it?”

Creslin waits until the five have finished. “Polished green-juice brandy.”

“I suspected so.” Lydya nods.

“What have you got in mind?” Hyel asks.

“The other day there was something Gossel said,” Creslin muses. “He was explaining that smugglers trade only certain things, like weapons, jewels, and distilled spirits. Then he sort of half-muttered that the green juice ought to make a decent brandy. So I tried it.”

“Do you think we could make money on it?” Lydya asks.

“I don’t know. But there are a lot of berries on the western cliffs. They grow anywhere, and it wouldn’t take much effort to find out. The glassworks already makes some bottles. Would a colored one be much trouble?” He looks at Megaera.

“No. But would anyone buy it?”

Hyel laughs. “It’s better than most of the good stuff out there. But you’d have to make a lot.”

“Anyone mind if I try?”

“Hardly,” Megaera finally says. “It is order-based and constructive.”

Creslin swallows the implied reprimand.

“Is that all? asks Shierra.

“That’s all.”

Creslin watches for a moment as they look at each other, then turns and leaves, walking slowly down the stairs to the main floor, and out toward the stable.

Megaera catches up with him. “I’m sorry.”

“It was stupid. I just thought it was a good idea.”

“It is. It’s simply that… I mean, how can we produce enough?”

“I should have thought about that. Fine. Say I can come up with a hundred bottles before winter, and that’s a lot. Assume that they’re good enough to fetch a silver apiece-even a gold. That’s what? A hundred golds. What will the bottles cost? And everything else. A hundred golds would be nice, but they certainly won’t solve our problems.” Creslin eases the saddle onto the black. • “I still like the idea.”

“Thank you. But it’s not enough, and I should have known better.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Why not? Someday it might really lead to something, and it will give us a few coins in the meantime. Besides, I’d feel like a fool if I didn’t carry it through now.” He tightens the saddle. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like nothing safe and orderly will save us.”

“Don’t say that.”

“That’s the way I feel. I thought that having a ship would help. We have two, and we can trade in maybe four places on the entire continent. I thought that having more people with more skills would help, and now that we have them, we can’t find enough food to last the coming winter.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

Creslin looks from Megaera’s somber face to the open stable door and back again. “I’ll see you tonight. I need to think.”

“Tonight.”… best-beloved…

Even her lingering farewell does not warm him as he rides southward past the Black Holding, on the road that he had hoped would one day be a grand highway from one end of the isle to the other.

The sun is low in the western sky, heralding the end of summer .- . . and the darker days ahead.