The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [66]
“I didn’t invite you to join me,” she observes.
“Don’t need no invitation.” He leers and begins to sit.
Her staff and foot move simultaneously.
Cruump…Both chair and bearded man crash to the gritty plank floor.
“Bitch!” His hand reaches for the knife.
Before he can reach her, she is standing, dark staff in hand.
Thud…crack…thump…
He pitches forward onto the floor.
The innkeeper lurches from his post by the kitchen door. “There’ll be no fighting…”
“You’re right. There will be no fighting,” declares the redhead. “When this idiot wakes up, tell him to be more careful.” She stands while the innkeeper drags the unconscious man toward the doorway, then resumes her seat to finish the bread and cheese upon her table.
Across the room, the dark-eyed woman nods and leans toward the man in white. In turn, he nods and smiles.
Shortly, the pregnant kitchen-maid struggles to the hearth with a basket full of dripping stones, looking from the innkeeper to the man in white. “The stones you wanted, your lordship.”
“Stack them on the grate, if you would.”
The girl complies, her eyes darting from the slender lord in white to the hulking innkeeper.
“Thank you, girl. Here.”
Her eyes widen as she takes the silver, but she inclines her head as she covers the silver and thrusts it into the hidden pocket in her wide belt. “My thanks, your lordship.”
The man in white stands and turns to those at the tables. “All of you are cold. Would you like some warmth?” His fingers point at three figures at a table near the wall.
“I can tell you have come in from the winter rains. The warmth is on me.” He turns and gestures toward the stones, cold and damp upon the grate.
HSSSSSSSSSSsssssss! A flare of white sears from the grate.
Even the redhead in the shadows winces, and a hush drops over the tables.
When the brightness fades, steady coals glow from the heap of coal that has appeared on the grate, and the warmth begins to radiate across the public room.
The dark-eyed and veiled woman rises and walks toward the redhead’s table.
“Lord Antonin and I would like to invite you to join us,” she offers.
The redhead cocks her head, thinking. “Why?”
The dark-haired woman looks at the staff and smiles pleasantly. “Should we discuss it here?”
“I suppose not,” answers the redhead with a wry smile as she stands and follows the dark-haired woman.
“I am Sephya, and this is Lord Antonin,” offers the veiled woman as she resumes her seat.
“Be our guest,” offers Antonin.
“Why?” asks the redhead.
“Why not?” he answers. “You doubtless have some questions, and we may be able to provide some of the answers.”
As the redhead eases the battered chair toward the table, she studies Sephya. Despite a fine figure, the veiled woman is older than she had first looked, with fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes and the color in her face supplied by rouge.
“Why don’t you start by explaining why you flaunted your power? And why you invited me to join you?” Her tone is half-humorous, half-sharp.
“A deed is a deed. Do you believe that appearances can really deceive, young lady?”
“Go on,” suggests the redhead.
“Actions speak louder than words. There are those here who shivered from cold. Did the righteousness of Recluce warm them? Will the innkeeper feed his fire for them from the goodness of his heart?”
“That is a well-used argument, Antonin. One good action does not make a man good. Nor does a single wrong action make a good man evil.”
The outside door opens, and a gust of wet chill air momentarily disperses the warmth from the hearth—until the door closes with a thud.
“Actions do speak louder than words,” Antonin insists, his voice melodious. “Tell me why it is wrong to warm those who are cold.”
“I don’t like answers that are questions. How about a straight answer?” The redhead looks toward the back wall and the door.
Antonin shrugs, as if to deplore such directness, then looks her in the eye. “What use is a good thought if it does not translate into good action? I’m sorry,” he grins. “Let me rephrase that. The purists of the world