The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [111]
“Remember, Lerris, you don’t have the viscount’s seal. Whatever happens, try to remember that. Being my apprentice wouldn’t help. Reading your book would.”
At that point I was ready to take my invisible staff and crack the gray wizard. Exactly when had I had time to read anything? But what good would arguing have done? Justen would have asked how long I had had the book, and then I’d have to admit I had had the time, until recently. Of course, it wasn’t until recently that anyone had given me enough knowledge and information for the book to make sense.
In the meantime, as Gairloch picked his way across the brick-paved courtyard of the inn, his hoofs clicking ever so lightly, I wondered why Rosefoot’s steps were virtually silent.
“Why would some healers be licensed and not others?”
“Money. A licensed healer pays a percentage to the viscount.”
Once in the stable, Justen and I were left to brush our mounts. Why was it that in the larger towns, the ones with walls, the reputation of the mountain ponies was so fierce that no stableboy seemed willing to handle them?
With considerably more practice, Justen was finished long before I was, and suggested that I join him in the inn when I had settled Gairloch and left my staff appropriately concealed.
Whheee…eeee…
“Yes, I know. There’s only hay and no oats, but I’ll see in a while, after I figure out how to untangle this mess.”
“Does he listen?” asked the black-haired apprentice ostler from two stalls away, where he was grooming a tall chestnut.
“He listens, but doesn’t think much of what I say.” I didn’t bother to gauge his reaction as I returned the brush to the shelf over the stall and slung my gear over my shoulder.
The wind had dropped off, the sun had reappeared, and the courtyard was almost pleasant as I walked the distance to the inn.
No sooner had I walked inside than Justen took my arm and guided me to a corner table in the public room. Most of the tables—all red oak, if battered—were occupied, and the air was stuffy, the warmth augmented by the flames of a large stone fireplace.
The dark paneled walls and low ceiling added to the oppressiveness.
“A gold wine,” Justen told the girl.
“Redberry,” I added. “What do you have to eat?”
“Mutton pie, mutton chops, mixed stew.”
“Try the stew,” suggested the gray wizard.
I didn’t need much encouragement, not after the days in Montgren. Mutton was fine, but not every day, and not when everything smelted like it.
“Recluce is trying something,” said Justen flatly.
“What?” I sipped the redberry, which helped ease a slight hoarseness, a leftover from breathing too much sheep.
“I don’t know, but you’re part of it.”
I just looked at the gray wizard.
“Oh, not consciously. I suspect you’ve been used. That was an extraordinarily talented group of dangergelders that the black masters dropped on Candar, talented enough to confuse any actions the masters might otherwise have had in mind.”
I took another sip and waited.
“You alone radiate order wherever you travel, yet it’s hard to pin it to one person. That black-haired blade—she has everyone talking, almost enough to make them forget the assassin who preceded her. And the preacher…”
“What about the others?”
Justen shrugged. “You heard about the blond with the knives, and you could probably tell me more about the others.”
I decided against it. If Tamra, Myrten, and Dorthae hadn’t been brought to the attention of the powers-that-were, there was no reason for me to be the one to do it.
“Why do you think it was deliberate?” I asked instead.
“I don’t know, but you’re really too young to be here. That bothers me.” Justen looked into his glass and said nothing more, even after the two bowls of stew arrived.
In the end, I went upstairs early,