The Towers Of the Sunset (13 page)

CRESLIN LEANS FORWARD in the saddle. Ahead and to his right, the sun glints off the river below. To his left, the road widens into a broad, stone through way that leads toward the open gates. The wheels of the trader’s cart echo on the hard and even pavement.

Unlike the smaller towns of Gallos and Certis, Jellico has walls, walls rising more than fifty cubits. The southern gates stand open on massive iron fittings. The grooves for anchoring those gates and the stones in which they have been chiseled are swept clean.

A full squad of men-twelve or more-in gray-brown leather patrols the gate, inspecting each traveler entering, each person departing.

“Master Derrild, it’s been a while. Some were a-saying you’d gone too far.” The serjeant’s voice is respectful, but friendly. His paunch does not quite bulge out of the leathers.

On the wall overhead, barely visible behind the parapet crenelations, a pair of crossbowmen sit lazily in the sun, their weapons resting on wooden frames within a cubit of each man.

“These your men?” asks the Certan serjeant, inclining his head toward Hylin and Creslin, who have dropped back abreast of the cart.

“You’ve met Hylin before,” rumbles Derrild. “Creslin, here, joined me out of Bleyans after Berlis took a fancy to a lady whose family decided he’d taken too much of a fancy. Hope he likes being a cooper!” Derrild’s laughter echoes against the stones.

The serjeant smiles politely. “It is good to have you back, Master Derrild. Have a good day.” His eyes do not smile with his mouth, and his glance has rested more than once on Creslin’s silver hair.

The three move on into the town. The houses are mostly of fired brick; narrow, two storied structures with pitched roofs, and heavy, iron-bound oak doors, closed despite the sun and the spring warmth.

“I’ll get you, Thomaz! I’ll get you!” The high-pitched voice comes from a small, ragged figure chasing another toward the trader’s party.

“Watch the horses!” screeches a woman in a leather skirt as the two boys run along the rough stones of the byroad. “Watch the horses!”

“Watch the side!” snaps Hylin.

Creslin tears his glance from the children and the woman and glances toward the alleyway on the left, perhaps thirty cubits ahead. Even without the breezes, he can sense someone waiting there. “Someone in the alleyway ahead.” He reaches for the bow, grabbing for an arrow.

Hylin reins up short. “Make them come to us.”

As Derrild pulls the mule to a halt, the two boys stop their race and turn, scuttling toward the right side of the narrow street. The woman halts and reaches for something.

“Stop!” shouts Creslin, arrow nocked and ready to release.

The woman, not a woman at all, but a thin youth, drops the bow, then looks nervously toward the alleyway.

Creslin smiles faintly as he hears the scuffling of footsteps fading away, leaving the youth and the two boys standing there alone.

“They’re gone,” sniffs Hylin. “Couldn’t get us by surprise. So they’ll not stay and fight.”

“Please…” pleads the youth, eying the arrow drawn upon him.

“Pot him,” rumbles Derrild. “Don’t need another thief growing up here.”

“Take off your clothes,” Creslin commands. “Now!” He waits. “Step toward the door. And stay there.” Although the day is not chill, the youth shivers. Absently, Creslin notes that the two small boys have vanished into some hidey-hole or another.

“Now what?” asks Hylin.

“You pick up the bow, and we keep going. I doubt he’ll attack us, and I have no desire to explain a body.”

“Softhearted bastard,” Derrild grumbles from the cart. He flicks the reins and recovers the bow hastily, but only to slash the string and throw the bow stave into the alleyway as the three pass.

As they draw abreast of the wide-eyed youth, standing only in baggy shorts, Creslin’s eyes fix the dark-haired youngster. “Keep this up and you’ll die before your next birthdate.” His voice chimes silver, like spring thunder, and the youth shudders.

The two guards continue their ride toward an intersection with a larger avenue ahead.

“You know, Creslin,” Hylin observes in a low voice, “you’re one scary bastard. I believe every word of your warning to that kid. So did he.”

“It’s true. How I know, I couldn’t tell you, but it’s true. Sometimes I can know things.” Creslin shrugs. “Other times, I know nothing.” He half-turns and looks back over his shoulder, but the youth has disappeared.

“What are you? Some kind of wizard warrior?”

“I wish…” Creslin laughs ruefully. “Then again, maybe I don’t.”

“Enough jabber, you two,” interrupts Derrild, catching up. “There’s the warehouse.”

“I recognize it,” mumbles Hylin.

The warehouse is a stone-walled building the width of several houses; it is three stories high, with a high-pitched roof. While taller than the adjoining structures-a woodcrafting shop toward the square and a linens and dry-goods shop toward the city gate-the warehouse is more than matched by the white stone facades of even taller structures around the square, another hundred cubits down the narrow street.

Derrild’s establishment offers three doors: The first is an open sliding door, level with the rough stones of the street and wide enough to admit Derrild’s cart; the second door is iron-bound and barred; the third door, nearest to the square, is of carved oak under a blue-painted cornice.

Looking upward, Creslin sees that the third story contains household windows. He returns his attention to the sliding doorway, before which Hylin has dismounted. The thin mercenary pushes the slider all the way to the left. Creslin then draws the black gelding out of the way as Derrild guides the cart into the dim light within.

“Need any help?” Creslin asks Hylin.

“No. I’ll close this. Just follow Derrild.”

Inside, to his right, Creslin finds a row of open wooden bins, most of which are empty. In one there are wide-necked pottery jars. One jar is cracked and unstoppered. Other stoppered jars rest firmly on the red clay. The bins rise two stories. Stairs and wooden walkways allow access to the second level, where most of the storage is taken up by wooden lockers with locked doors.

Creslin reins in before the six stalls on the rear wall. In one stall, the one closest to the doorway to what Creslin presumes are the trader’s business offices, there is a black mare. The other five stalls are vacant.

Despite the dim light afforded by two high windows on the rear wall and an oil lamp on the wall beside the first stall, Creslin has no trouble in determining that the warehouse is litter-free. His nose confirms that the cleanliness extends beyond the superficial and that the trader maintains order within his premises. Beneath the grumbling, rumbling facade, Derrild is well-organized, as is Hylin.

Creslin pauses. Is that why he had had so little trouble on his trip across the mountains of Candar?

“Let’s get going!”

Creslin dismounts. After leading the black gelding into the third stall, which seems appropriate somehow, he begins to unsaddle the mount, racking the saddle and shaking out and folding the blanket.

The black snorts.

“I know… I know. It’s been a long trip. But you get to rest now.”

“Don’t take forever,” Hylin calls.

“I know,” repeats Creslin. “We’re the ones who have to unload the mules, right?”

“Right.”

It is not the unloading that is difficult, but the climbing up the stairs and the determination of which items go to which bins or lockers.

“Not there! The purple glazes go in the next locker, that one,” calls the trader. “The cerann oils, just carry them one at a time. I couldn’t afford it if you broke two at once. Neither could you. They go on the second level, fifth door down, with the green leaf.”

“The one that says ‘cerann’?” asks Creslin.

“Yes. How did you know that’s what it says?”

“I can read,” the former consort snaps. “How else?”

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“Never mind. I never said.”

Some of the unloading goes more easily from that point, since Creslin is handed the goods that bear clearly labeled destinations. He suspects that everything labeled is either heavy, delicate, expensive, or all three, and tries to watch his footing.

“It figures…” he mumbles under his breath as he lugs up the last jar of something called porthernth, the sweat streaming down his forehead.

“You about done?” calls Hylin.

“Yes. Finally.”

As Creslin clumps down the unrailed steps, Derrild motions both men toward him. The trader stands by the doorway that leads to the quarters. “You get a dinner, a bed, and a meal in the morning, plus your pay,” he explains expansively. “We’ll settle the accounts after dinner.”

“How about a horse?” Creslin suggests.

“The horse is worth more than you, young fellow, good as you are.” Derrild turns toward Hylin.

“Wait,” observes Creslin. “You had the gelding. The black’s a far better horse.”

Derrild pauses, his face twisting for a moment, then smoothing. “There is that. I do owe you for the upgrade. Probably two silvers’ difference, and I’ll split it with you.”

Creslin sighs. “More like a gold’s difference.”

“I can’t sell the black,” notes Derrild.“It’s really too good for a trader, but I’ll give you two silvers instead of one. If I go through the horse brokers, I won’t get more than three or four silvers.”

Creslin reaches out faintly, senses that the trader is both scared and telling what he believes to be the truth. “All right. Two silvers it is.”

Derrild lets out a heavy breath. “You can wash up. Hylin can show you where. By then, dinner should be on the table.” He turns with another heavy breath.

“Good,” snorts the mercenary.

Creslin pulls at his sweaty and stubbled chin. Derrild, the trader-scared? Creslin reaches for his pack. He not only wants to wash up; he wants to shave and more.

“Anywhere I can wash out what I’m wearing? Not the leathers, the rest of it.”

“Since the washroom’s where we get to lather up, I doubt that anyone would mind,” Hylin answers, hoisting his own pack.

Creslin follows him, not that they go more than a dozen steps. Two large tubs filled with lukewarm water await them. Almost wishing that he could submerge himself, Creslin contents himself with a thorough wash and shave.

Following Hylin’s example, he leaves his sword and pack hanging on a post in the washroom. Unlike Hylin, he dons a fresh shut, without a tunic over it, and he has cleaned his boots as well as he can. His other shirt hangs on the drying rack, as do his underclothes.

“You’d think this were a castle, the way you clean up,” Hylin says.

“Compared to some places I’ve been, it is.” Creslin follows Hylin to the dining room.

The long red-oak table is polished, oiled, and only slightly battered along its near eight-cubit length, and there are wooden armchairs, not benches, for the nine who gather.

Derrild, his beard now trimmed and wearing faded and comfortable red tunic and trousers, nods toward his household. “My wife Charla, my son Waltar and his wife Vierdra, and young Willum, and my daughters Derla and Lorcas.”

Creslin inclines his head to Charla, then bows slightly. “Honored, lady, and I thank you for your hospitality.”

The blond daughter named Lorcas leans toward her sister and murmurs something that Creslin cannot catch.

“Let’s sit down,” rumbles Derrild. “You’re there, Hylin, and Creslin, between Charla and Lorcas.”

Knowing that men are the empowered ones in the east, Creslin holds the chair for Lorcas and eases her into place, assuming that Derrild will do the honors for his wife.

“Ah, Derrild, it’s good to see that some chivalry remains in the world.”

“Chivalry never paid for dinner,” grumbles the trader.

Lorcas and Derla exchange glances across the table.

A white-haired woman appears from the next room with a large steaming bowl, which she places before Charla. Next come two wooden platters, each containing a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Two pitchers already sit upon the table, and before each diner is a wide crockery plate, rimmed, and a heavy brown mug.

“Ale’s in the gray pitcher, redberry in the brown one,” Derrild says.

“Where are you from, young man?” says Charla, her not-quite-round face pleasant under her short thatch of gray hair.

“From the other side of the Westhorns,” he answers.

“That is a long way. Where are you headed?” She breaks the end off a loaf of bread and hands the platter to him.

“
Fairhaven, I suspect. I have not decided for sure.” He takes the bread, tears off a chunk, and puts it on his plate. Then he picks up the redberry pitcher, offers it to Lorcas, who nods; he pours for both of them.

“Are you a good fighter?” asks Willum, the boy whose tousled blond head barely clears the edge of the table.

“Willum!” scolds the blonde named Vierdra.

Creslin laughs softly. “That depends on who you ask. Those you defeat will say you are a good fighter. Those who beat you say otherwise.”

“You’re a good fighter!” affirms the boy cheerfully.

“He sees right through you, Creslin,” Hylin mumbles through a mouthful of bread.

“Best I’ve seen,” adds Derrild.

Creslin takes his turn and ladles the thick stew- composed of heavy noodles, a white sauce, and some sort of meat-onto one side of his plate. He manages to do so without dripping or otherwise disgracing himself.

Hylin attacks the huge bowl with the serving spoon, and there is sauce on the polished wood and noodles oozing from his plate onto the table.

Creslin suppresses a wince at the mess, but no one else seems to notice.

“Are you a professional fighter, then?” asks Lorcas.

He finishes a mouthful of the peppery stew, which is not as hot as the burkha of Sarronnyn but still highly spiced, before answering. “No. I have seen the real fighters, and I’m not that good.”

“I haven’t seen them,” adds Hylin. “If they’re that much better than Creslin, I never hope to meet them.”

“Why are you thinking about
Fairhaven?” asks Charla.

“It seems to be the place where the unknowable can be discovered.”