The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [78]
“Woodworker? Too damned fair for that.” He glared at me.
I sighed. “All right, I was an apprentice woodcrafter—never got further than benches and breadboards.”
“Hah! Least you’re honest, boy. No one would admit that, weren’t it true.” Then he glared back at his cider, ignoring me.
Left to my own devices, I waved at the serving-girl. A black-haired and skinny thing, she wore a sleeveless brown leather vest and wide skirts. She ignored me as well. So I began to study the people while I waited for her to get close enough for me to insist on something.
At the table closest the hearth sat four people—a woman veiled below her eyes, wearing a loose-fitting green tunic over a white blouse, and presumably trousers. She was the only veiled woman I had ever seen. But if her lower face were unknown, her clothes were tight enough to reveal that her figure, at least, was desirable.
Her forehead was darkish, as were her heavy eyebrows and her hair, bound with golden cord into a cone shape. Over the back of her chair was a heavy coat—of a white fur I had never seen.
Two of the other men were clearly fighters, wearing surcoats I could not identify and the bowl-cut of hair worn under a helmet. One fighter was older, white-haired and grizzled, but his body seemed younger. His back was to me and I could not see his face, though I would have guessed it was unlined, despite the white hair. The other fighter was thin, youngish, with a face like a weasel and dark black hair to match.
Between them, across from the woman, half-facing the fire, was a man in spotless white. Even from that distance, more than ten cubits, I could see his eyes were old, though he looked more like Koldar’s age, perhaps a trace older, perhaps even into his third decade. But the eyes had seen more, and I shivered and dropped my glance as he turned in my direction.
The man in white smiled. His smile was friendly, reassuring, and everyone in the dining area of the saloon relaxed. I could feel the wave of relaxation, and I fought it off, just because no one was going to tell me what to feel. Was he the one who rode in the golden coach?
“You in the back. I see you are cold. Would you like some warmth?” I felt he was looking at me, but his fingers pointed at three figures huddled against the timbered wall behind me and to my left. The two men and the woman, all clad in the shapeless gray padded jackets that marked them as herders of some sort, ignored the question and looked down.
“Fine,” said the man in white. “I can tell you have come in from the blizzard’s chill. The warmth is on me.” He gestured, and in our corner of the long room, I could feel the dampness and chill dissipate, though we were far from the fire.
The woman looked away from the wizard, for that was clearly what he had to be, and made a motion, as if to reject the heat. The two men looked down.
Me…for the first time since Gairloch and I had ridden out of Hrisbarg, I felt comfortably warm, as if the long table where I sat were the one before the hearth, rather than the farthest from the fire. Yet the heat thrown by the wizard chilled me as well, inside, and it felt familiar, as if I too could have called it forth, though I did not know how. Nor did I want to try.
At a small table in the corner nearest the hearth sat another man, the only person in the crowded inn sitting alone. He wore a dark-gray long-sleeved tunic, belted over similar trousers by an even darker belt. A dark-gray leather cloak lay over the chair beside him.
His hair was a light brown that seemed gray, though from my distance he did not appear old.
“The man in gray…” I mumbled to the carpenter.
“Arlyn, call me Arlyn.” His eyes were glazed, not with alcohol, but as if he had been looking somewhere else. “Lass! More cider.” Arlyn waved the brown mug in the air. Several drops of cider splashed across my face.
After wiping off the cider with the back of my hand, I asked, “Arlyn, who’s the man in gray?”
“Justen. Gray wizard. Almost as bad as the white one. Antonin. Antonin will take your soul