The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [158]
A momentary silence dropped over the table.
“Lerris, what brought you here?” asked Perlot, almost desperately.
“Recluce, I’d have to say.” I took a sip from the mug, trying to figure out how to tell the truth without being deceptive myself. “As I told Perlot here,”—I gestured to the crafter—“after leaving my apprenticeship, I was trying to make my way in Freetown, when the old duke ran afoul of Recluce. The rains came and turned the meadows to swamps. The clouds never left, and then the duke was dead, and wizards were running all over the place.” I winced inside at the slight exaggeration. “So I took what I had and got a pony and left.”
“Why did you come so far, and where were you from?” asked Jirrle.
I shrugged. “As I told Destrin, I’m technically only an apprentice. I don’t have any guild certification. Hrisbarg was too small to support another crafter, and,” I raised my eyebrows, “have you seen Howlett and Montgren?”
That brought a chuckle from everyone but Jirrle, and I continued before he could ask me again where I was from. “As for Jellico, you can’t walk the streets without a permit and a seal. So what could a poor apprentice woodworker do? What would you have done?” I addressed the question to Deryl.
“I guess I would have come to Fenard, just like you did. How did you get across the Easthorns?”
“It wasn’t easy. It was cold, because I couldn’t afford to stay in the inns there.” And I couldn’t, but not for reasons of cost. Still, the misrepresentation hurt. “The heavy snows hadn’t fallen, but I had to wait until a caravan cleared one snowfall from the road. I was afraid poor Gairloch would be skin and bones by the time we got to Passera.”
“How did you get into Jellico?” asked Rasten.
“Anything else around here?” asked the serving-girl.
“Nothing for me,” said Perlot.
“Nor me,” I added.
“Another mug.”
“Me too.”
“Not here.”
“I was lucky, ran into a healer, and traveled with him for a while, but he had business in Jellico.”
Jirrle frowned, even as he sipped from the heavy brown mug.
“Where did you get that design for the chair you did for Wryson?” asked Perlot quickly.
“I looked through Dorman’s plan book, then just made some changes to make it more suitable for Wryson.”
“He’s a diplomat,” chuckled Ferralt. “Ingenious way of bracing it. Do you mind if I try that?”
“Not at all. You might find a better way, though. I did that in more of a hurry than I would have liked.” Or than Uncle Sardit would have advised, either.
“Why the child’s table?” That was Rasten.
“That started out as a project for Bostric. He’s turned out to have a real feel for the woods, and I wanted to give him something that…well…” I finally shrugged, hoping they would understand.
Even Jirrle nodded slowly, although the frown never left his face.
“Maybe we ought to do more work like that,” began Deryl. “Some of the gentry pay well for garb for the little ones. Why not furniture? I once heard about the miniature palace in Hamor.”
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The girl dropped the heavy mugs on the table like mallets, one after the other.
I glanced over at the table where the apprentices sat. They looked more relaxed, which reassured me. Bostric seemed positively loquacious.
“…then…he talks about grains, grains, and more grains, about feeling the wood, like you could see right through it…but it’s scary sometimes, because I get the feeling he can…”
“Hell…all of them can…why they’re craft-masters…”
“One each, gents,” snapped the serving-girl, her tone crisper and shorter than the first time I’d been at the Tap Inn.
“What other projects do you have lined up?” asked Jirrle slowly.
“Not a lot. We’re still scrambling. There’s a corner chest, and a dower piece, and another couple of benches for the Horn Inn…”
“There will be more,” added Perlot, “with all the praise you’re getting from Wessel.”
“We do the best we can…”
As the door opened, I turned to look, and realized it was pitch-dark out.