The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [102]
“In Weevett?”
“Just so.” He reseated himself in the saddle as Gairloch’s hooves struck the granite paving-stones of the bridge.
Click, clip…click, clip…
“May I ask what your commission is here?”
“Oh, so delicately put!” Justen laughed. He actually laughed, if only for a moment. “I don’t believe in glamor, just in a good job and money. Some years ago I struck a bargain with the Count of Montgren. He wanted his duchy to be prosperous and famed for something, and I wanted a more secure income. I made a proposal, and he nearly threw me out.
“Then he thought better of it, but I raised the price. After all, even gray wizards have some dignity. That’s why we’re here.”
“You haven’t told me anything,” I noted.
“The sheep,” Justen added. “The famous sheep and wool of Montgren.”
“I know. They’re famous. Even some of the weavers in…some of the weavers I know…praise the wool.” I paused. “Are you saying you have something to do with that?”
“Immodestly, yes. That is why we are here.”
I shook my head.
“Since you are here, you can help.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all, but I owed Justen. “How?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a menial job, but purely one of order.”
I waited.
“Healthy sheep bear healthy lambs and good wool. Each year, I check the ewes and the breeding rams to ensure only the healthy ones are bred,” he explained. “That means four visits to Montgren, and it takes several days. In the fall, I check the lambs as well.”
It couldn’t be that simple, but I knew little enough to question. So I remained silent and let Gairloch follow Rosefoot.
The stone-paved streets of Weevett were narrow, though the cottages were fenced and set far back from the main ways. The town layout was simple. Two main streets—one north-south, one east-west—met at a central square. There were no more than two dozen other streets, half of which ran north-south and half east-west, creating a grid pattern.
On the south side of the town I could see, over the low one-story cottages, what appeared to be warehouses or large workshops.
“Carding houses,” said Justen curtly.
“For wool,” he added even more curtly.
I shrugged. The gray wizard’s mind was clearly somewhere else. So I studied the town itself, noting the plain-planked cottages with their painted and opened shutters, colored-gravel walks, trimmed waist-high hedges, and now-empty flower beds and flower boxes. Compared to Hrisbarg or Howlett, Weevett was indeed an ordered place.
In the center of the square was a stone pedestal bearing the statue of a man on a horse; carved into the stone supporting the statue were the recurring shapes of sheep. Around the pedestal was a winter-browned lawn, except on the north side, right under the pedestal, where rested a small pile of dirty snow. A low stone wall and a raised walk outside the wall separated the green from the pavement.
Around the central square were ranged half-a-dozen well-kept stores—dry goods, a wood-crafter, a produce market, a butcher, a leather-goods shop, a bakery—and the Weavers’ Inn, which from the outside appeared nearly as ordered as the Travelers’ Rest had been.
Across the square from the inn was a two-story stone building, with a flagstaff from which flew a blue-and-gold banner. On the blue triangular lower section was a golden coronet, while the upper gold section bore a black ram.
Although a good score of people walked to and from the shops and stores on the east and west sides of the square, no one neared the stone building on the north side.
A single wagon waited in front of the leather-goods store.
Justen and Rosefoot headed straight for the equally orderly stable behind the Weavers’ Inn, going down a narrow paved alley beside the tan-painted plank siding of the two-story inn.
“Ser wizard…” the stableboy greeted him.
Justen nodded, flashed a brief smile, and dismounted.
“Are you a wizard, too?” asked the towhead.
“I am what I am.