The Towers Of the Sunset (46 page)

CRESLIN ALIGNS THE last stone, straightens, and steps back. The new and half-cubit-high wall encloses a square of three cubits on a side, the nearest edge perhaps a distance of five cubits from the southern terrace wall.

“Ought to leave enough room for growth,” he mutters to himself.

He takes the spade and again mixes the dirt and other ingredients prescribed by Lydya. Once they are mixed to his satisfaction, he gently shovels the damp pile into the stone box. Then he plants the oak seedling in the center, carefully patting the soil in place.

Water from the bucket comes next, with more careful tamping of the soil. Finally he reaches out, and as Klerris has taught him, strengthens the internal order of the seedling.

“Not that I’ll ever see you full grown,” he thinks. “We plant trees for those who follow.” Besides, he is merely making a personal gesture with the seedling. What counts more are the three small forests they have already planted in the lower hills to the south.

Creslin takes several trips to replace the tools and shovel in the third guest house, which still serves as storeroom and sometime-workroom. On the last trip, he returns with a broom and sweeps away the loose dirt from the stones. He carries the broom back to the storeroom.

“Your grace… I was wondering whether one of you had spirited this off for some wizardly task.” Aldonya takes the broom.

“Waa… daaa… gooo…” Lynnya lunges for the broom, nearly wresting herself from her mother’s arms.

“Lynnya, how will we ever get the floors swept? I put you down and you crawl into everything…”

“I’ll take her for a little bit.” Creslin holds out his hands. “The Dawnstar won’t reach the pier for a time yet.” .

“Your grace…”

“I think I can manage.”

“Daaa gooo…” Lynnya twines pudgy fingers into the hair of his forearm and twists.

“Now… not that way.” Creslin swings her up so she is looking over his shoulder.

The small hand waves, then seizes upon his hair.

“You little minx…” Creslin carries her back toward the terrace, wondering what ever possessed him to suggest baby-sitting for the little redhead, even for a short time.

Aldonya shakes her head, and watches as the wizard carries her daughter from the shadows of the covered walk into the morning light on the terrace. She watches for a moment longer, then lifts the broom.

Creslin sits down on the wall, holding Lynnya in his lap with an arm around her middle. The baby squirms and leans down toward the stones. “All right.” He lowers her carefully to the terrace floor. She squirms again, one hand reaching for his boots. Inside, the vigorous swishing of the broom begins.

Lynnya reaches for a dead millipede, her chubby fingers closing on the small gray remnant.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Creslin disengages her fingers, sweeps her into the air and back onto his shoulder.

“Daaa! Gooo, ooooo…”

“I know you don’t approve, but your mother doesn’t want you eating bugs. Things aren’t that bad. Not yet, anyway.”

“Unmmm.” A chubby fist goes against her mouth.

Creslin walks to the south side of the wall, looking at the oak seedling, its few leaves trembling in the breeze.

“Uuummm… da!”

“Oooww.” He gently removes Lynnya’s hand from his hair. A few silver strands float free in the wind. “You are a grabby child, aren’t you?”

“Goo…”

“I’m not certain I believe it.” Megaera stands on the terrace, grinning. “As much as I’d like to watch, I think you need to get ready. I can see the Dawnstar’s sails already.”

“I said I’d hold-”

“I’ll take her while you wash up… unless you want to look like a stonemason. What are you doing, anyway? All the stonework is finished, isn’t it?”

He inclines his head as she approaches. “Just something for a little oak.”

Megaera shakes her head as she extends her arms to take Lynnya. “Come on, little one. Your uncle can’t stand to be idle for a moment, can he?”

“Uncle?”

“It’s as accurate as any other description. And it’s true that you don’t relax.”

Creslin refrains from comment, instead handing over one redhead to the other and retrieving a towel.

By the time he has washed and dressed, Megaera has returned Lynnya to her mother and is saddling Kasma. Creslin follows her example with Vola, and before long, they ride northward and down to the inn, where they will leave the horses.

The Dawnstar looks battered, whether from the trip or from other circumstances, Creslin can’t tell.

“Freigr had a hard trip.” Megaera edges toward the spot where Synder and another crewman lower the gangway onto the pier.

“Looks that way.”

Freigr waits for them by the helm.

Creslin leans over the railing and looks down at the gouges on the Dawnstar’s fantail. “This because of your problems?”

“That was from the Devalonian catapult. Load of stones.”

“Why-” asks Megaera.

“Because the Suthyan merchants guild embargoed us, and only a handful of the smaller traders would deal with me. They won’t do it again.”

“Why not?”

“Three of them were arrested. We left Armat in a hurry.”

“Weindre’s tied up with the Whites?”

“I should have guessed. Idiot,” mutters Creslin.

Megaera and Freigr wait for him to explain.

“According to what Shierra found out from her sister, Weindre set up… the Marshall of Westwind. The Whites were behind the trap, and they were the ones who used those devil’s explosions to kill Llyse and the senior guards.”

“Well, that explains it, but explanations don’t help. I’m sorry, your graces, but I got coin and not a lot of cargo. And unless we can figure out something else, we’ll not get even that much again.”

“What did you get?” asks Megaera.

“Wish I could have brought more of the staples.” Freigr gestures at the barrels being lifted from the deck. “Mostly cornmeal and barley from a wet comer of Suthya. Still, only about fifty barrels. The White Wizards are buying up what they can.”

“What are they doing with it?”

“Doling it out in Montgren, Kyphros, and Certis. According to the traders, every time they do, they tell how you destroyed the crops in revenge for the wizards’ not accepting you and the Legend.”

“What does sister dear say about this?” Megaera looks from the last of the barrels to Freigr.

“Sister dear?”

“Ryessa… Tyrant of Sarronnyn,” Creslin explains.

“Nothing, except that Westwind was a stalking horse for the wizards.”

“I suppose the White Wizards are claiming Westwind was going to unleash the Legend upon the innocent people of Candar?”

“Pretty much,” admits Freigr.

“What else did you get?”

“Some gold. More than I’d like.”

“Oh?” Megaera looks puzzled.

“They’ll buy, but not sell?” Creslin asks.

“Some of them-those few I got to before the guild discovered who we were. I didn’t exactly boast of our origins. We even flew the Montgren ensign. A lot of them had nothing to sell. There’s not even the Kyphran dried fruit, and there’s always dried fruit. I did pick up nearly a dozen barrels of oatcakes for the horses. Don’t know whether you needed them, but they were cheap and I figured the barrels might be worth it alone.

“Then, I did pick up a couple of chunks of iron. Some cast-off timbers, mostly short birch, too brittle, and it rots too easily. Some odd lots of canvas-figured that would always come in useful. Plus another family, paid for passage in gold, Yerrtl’s cousin. He’s a cooper. Don’t have any, but I warned him we didn’t have much wood… said he could make baskets from rushes and seaweed, if need be. His daughter’s already showing Black traits, and the Whites have been watching.”

In the end, while the cargo is useful, Creslin knows there is not enough, particularly of flour and other staples.

As they walk back down the pier toward the inn and their mounts, Megaera brushes her hair back over her ears. “It could have been worse.”

“Not much.”

“Why are you always looking at the White side of things? Freigr did get us more staples, and forty-some barrels of commeal will last a little while.”

“Not that long. You figure that a barrel of meal is maybe four hundred loaves, and we’re running almost five hundred people now, or more. That’s… what? Maybe a half-barrel a day, three to four eight-days’ worth.”

“It could be a lot worse, and it has been.”

“I know. But sayings don’t bring coins or food. And with no one trading with us, where do we go next? Your dear sister has yet to come up with the aid she pledged.”

“You worried about housing, but we’ve managed,” Megaera snaps back.

“What about food? We still don’t have enough supplies to last the winter, and there’s no coin to buy enough.”

“Would you stop it!” Megaera gestures at the clear, greenish-blue sky and the bright noon sunlight. “It’s a beautiful day, and there will always be problems. At least let’s enjoy the respite. Everyone can stop worrying for a while about where the next meal-besides fish-will come from. And you can even have some barrels for your green brandy.”

“Well-”

“Best-loved, I know that we have problems still. You know that. We can discuss them later. It’s a beautiful day, and you are a good-looking man, if you’d stop being such a sourpuss.”

Creslin laughs. It is a short laugh, but that does not matter after the full-bodied hug she gives him in the inn stable. He almost feels like singing as they mount and begin the short ride to the keep.

Above the road, past the inn and between two of the older and weathered fisher cots, a pit has been dug into the sand and lined with stone. A man and a woman struggle with a length of patched canvas that will serve as a roof. A barefoot boy wearing only a ragged shirt plays with two sticks. None of the three look up as. the regents pass.

In the midday heat-reminiscent of the summer before the rains-Creslin wipes his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes. When he looks up, a girl stands by the road, eyes cast down, hands extended.

“A coin, even a copper, noble ser… just a copper?”

Her brown hair is tangled and dusty. She, too, is barefoot on the hot, sandy clay, and wears a tattered shift with little beneath it. “Just a copper?”

Creslin has no coppers, only a few golds, and he turns toward Megaera.

“All right.” She shrugs and fishes out a coin, lofting it toward the girl.

“Thank you, your grace.”

“Where did she come from?” Creslin asks.

“I don’t know. Did she hide away on the Dawnstar? Or on the last coaster, the one that dumped those people and no supplies?”

They ride in silence the rest of the way to the keep, but the images of the beggar girl and the near-naked boy remain with Creslin… and he again calculates how far forty barrels of meal will go.

“IT’S A MIGHTY risk that I be taking to trade here, and what with the bonus I must needs pay my crew…” The muscular captain of the Nightbreeze lifts both shoulders, but his hand does not stray far from his sword-hilt, and his eyes rest on Creslin rather than Gossel.

“I can understand your concerns, Captain, but we can’t afford to give away goods, not when we could make the trip to Brista and still do better, even paying our men a double-risk bonus.” Gossel’s voice is smooth. “And his grace, while he is a fair and just man, has been known to act against those who displease him mightily.”

Creslin glances from the foredeck of the Nightbreeze to the masts of the
Griffin on the far side of the pier. The Dawnstar is anchored off the
Feyn
River
a good hundred kays south, where Lydya and a group of guards are gathering wild herbs and other edibles that the schooner can transport more easily than horses could haul across the rugged terrain.

Letting Gossel carry the negotiations for the moment, Creslin debates whether he should stir the breezes for effect, then drops the idea when he feels instant queasiness in his stomach. He decides it’s best to save the dubious uses of order for times when more is at stake. Besides, the northwest sea breeze is fresh enough, heralding oncoming clouds and rain.

The smuggler offers; Gossel considers; Creslin looks displeased. Then, after a time, Gossel begins to offer those few goods that Reduce has produced, while the smuggler considers and Creslin still looks displeased.

In the end, the captains shake hands and Gossel and Creslin depart the deck of the Nightbreeze for the pier.

“You think that’s the best we could have done?” Creslin stands on the pier watching as the Griffin’s crew begins to off-load the cargo from the Nightbreeze and to on-load the few goods purchased by the smuggler: a few cases of goblets, several small casks of purple dye extracted from shellfish, Lydya’s spices, and a nearly dozen barrels of salted fish. The amount of fish is limited by the availability of barrels, not by lack of fish or salt.

“Did what I could.” Gossel shrugs. “Maybe we could have gotten more for the goblets. His eye slit when he saw them, but we did well with the spices and the dyes, and a lot better with the fish than I’d have believed. The fish probably went for more because of the poor harvests and all the sheep they lost early in the summer.”

“I appreciate it. You got a sight more than anyone else could have.”

“Appreciate the trust, your grace.”

“Will you need me for anything else?”

“I don’t see as I would, ser.”

“Thank you again. I’ll check back later, but I want to see about some things at the keep.” Creslin has barely recovered Vola from the inn stable- after having peered in the windows and watched two of the serving women clean tables and prepare for the late-afternoon and evening business-and is riding toward the keep when a thin voice intrudes.

“A copper, your grace? The smallest of coins? My mother is wasting away and cannot feed us.” The beggar is a dirty-faced boy wearing a sleeveless shirt and trousers so worn that the tatters barely cover his knees.

Creslin reins up, casts his thoughts around the area but senses nothing of whiteness or other power. “Where do you live?”

The child looks away.

“Where do you live?”

“In a cave…”

Either the boy is honest or Creslin is easily deceived, and he doesn’t have time to sort out the truth. “Here.” This time he has a copper.

“Thank you, your grace.”

Creslin rides on, wondering whether he is supporting the beginning of a class of beggars or whether everyone is beginning to suffer. “Every town has beggars,” he murmurs. But he is not convinced.

Then there is the business of the fish. Should the barrels that contain oatcake be used for salted fish or for aging the green-juice brandy? He needs to talk to Gidman, although the old Hamorian will insist on as many barrels as he can get.

A dull rumble of thunder interrupts Creslin’s thoughts, and he flicks the reins to speed Vola’s pace. Even as he does, the first rush of fine rain brushes across his face.

Megaera waits for him at the keep stable. “I was going to ride to the holding, but I thought I’d wait for you.” She swings up onto Kasma. “What happened?”

Creslin looks at the misty gray overhead, then brushes the combination of mist and rain from his tunic.

“Gossel did the best he could, and I played the fairminded but not terribly merciful Storm Wizard. We still paid too much, but what could we do? He had another fifty barrels of flour, half of it wheat, plus five barrels of dried fruits, hard yellow cheese, olives and olive oil… not to mention the caustic and a good hundred stones of iron ore. The high prices are what we have to expect.” He edges the black around, heading back eastward on the road he and Vola have just climbed.

“See? It’s not so bad. You worry too much.”

“Even after what he paid us for the dyes, spices, goblets, and fish, we came out a good fifty golds on the short side. This kind of trading is going to wipe out what was left of the Westwind treasury before much longer.”

“So why did you pay that much?”

“Because it’s likely to cost less now than later. Remember… Montgren, Certis, and Kyphros will have no harvests to speak of this year. There’s just not enough coin to stretch.”

“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you just take over the smuggler’s ship?”

“I’m not interested in surviving at any cost. Besides, what good would it have done? His ship is smaller than the
Griffin.”

“Expediency again. Would you have thought about it if they’d brought in a ship the size of the Dawnstar?”

“Maybe… but it wouldn’t solve the problem, and then not even the rest of the smugglers would trade with us.”

“You’ve come a long way from the Westwind innocent… if you ever were.”

“That was unfair.” Creslin snaps the reins to direct Vola away from Megaera and toward Klerris and Lydya’s cot, his guts churning and his eyes burning, whether from his pain and frustration or from hers, he cannot tell.

Then he reins up. What good will talking to the two Black mages do? They are even more constrained than he is.

Megaera eases up beside him again. “There’s nowhere to escape ourselves, best-beloved.”

At least she talks about both of them.