The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [141]
“I don’t think you can craft good wood without order in your soul,” I added.
“Nor do I, boy. But an orderly soul doesn’t guarantee good work. Having an orderly soul and being an order-master are two different propositions.” He stood up. “What will you do about that chair in the window?”
“Nothing. It’s your design.” I grinned. “Now…if I can find something as good—and different…”
“You mean that, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Give Destrin my best, Lerris. Do what you can while you’re here.” He stood up abruptly.
With that dismissal, I also stood, but did take the time for a last look at the chair before stepping out into the spring warmth.
Gairloch waited patiently, as always.
Wheeee…eeee…
“I know. You don’t get enough exercise, but I try, and one of these days, we’ll take a longer trip. Just be glad that you’re not hauling wood for the mills. You could belong to a carrier and not to a poor and impoverished woodcrafter.”
Gairloch didn’t seem impressed. So I patted him on the shoulder after I mounted. He didn’t flatter me, honest beast.
Perlot’s comments about Bostric bothered me. While I wished I could avoid it, before long I would have to talk to Brettel. Destrin continued to fail, and nothing I could do would help but prolong his failing.
XLVI
TEEEL…LEEELL… AN unfamiliar bird warbles from beyond the olive groves.
Sccuuuffff…Soft steps cross the graveled courtyard leading to the cavalry stables.
A single torch flickers in the holder by the stable door, where a tired youngster wearing the greens of the autarch snores softly.
As the steps pause, a woman with long dark unbound hair looks down at the youngster. She wears a peasant dress, yet carries a bulging field pack whose straps press into the lithe muscles of her shoulders.
After a sad nod, she eases around the sentry and into the darkness of the stable, counting the stalls until she reaches the third.
Whuffllll…
“…Easy…easy…”
In the darkness, the dark-haired woman eases the pack off her shoulders and lifts the two soft leather bags, and the heavy powder within each, out of the field pack she has carried from the engineering barracks. Next she checks the empty set of saddlebags before placing one bag of powder in each saddlebag, carefully fastening the clasps. The map she leaves tucked inside the waistband of the skirt.
She walks through the darkness to the end of the stable, where she eases the field pack into a corner. While it will certainly be discovered in a day or two, how and why it was placed there will not matter. Her squad will be leaving to face the Freetown rebels in the morning.
Her steps, even more silently, carry her back out past her mount and past the still-snoring stable guard. In time, she slips into her own room, where she lights a single candle, ignoring the woman on the occupied narrow cot. She rips off the peasant blouse and skirt and immerses herself in the tub of chill water she drew after the evening meal.
“At this time of night, Krystal?” asks a sleepy-eyed blond woman, sitting up and swinging her legs onto the floor.
“Never…again…no matter what.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The dark-haired woman jabs a hand toward her own cot. “See those scissors?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Would you get them?”
“You’re not…”
“I am. Like I said, never again, not even for the best of causes.” She has dried herself and is pulling on bleached and faded undergarments.
“You aren’t making sense.”
“I am. For the first time, I am.” Her lips quirk into a genuine smile as the long black tresses fall away.
XLVII
WITH THE FLOWERS in the street boxes in bloom, and a brisk breeze from the north, the walk along the avenue was pleasant enough, even if I felt Bostric was always about to lurch into me. His feet always threatened not to follow his body—or the street ahead.
Destrin was back in