The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [86]
Crack…thump…thud… I followed, not nearly so gracefully, banging the staff on the wall, dropping the pack, and nearly losing my balance off the half-wall of the stall.
Justen said nothing as he began to saddle Rosefoot.
I looked around.
“There,” pointed Justen.
He was right. Beyond the small door was the outhouse. By the time I returned, Rosefoot was saddled, and Justen was checking rather full saddlebags. The gray wizard said nothing as I struggled with Gairloch, offering neither assistance nor criticism.
“All right,” I mumbled, after what seemed like forever.
He nodded and opened the stall door. I led Gairloch out, and Rosefoot followed without Justen even touching her reins. Like Gairloch, Rosefoot wore a hackamore, not a bit.
“Sers…?” pleaded the ragged stable boy as he eased back the sliding door.
I looked at Justen, who grinned, then tossed a copper at the smudged face protruding from the assemblage of leather and rags. The coach stood beyond, polished and waiting, but the horses were still in their stalls.
“Thank you, gray wizard. Good luck.”
“Good luck, Gorling.”
Creakkkkk…I eased onto the saddle, my thighs not protesting quite as much as when I had left Hrisbarg.
Feather-light and chill, the wind brushed my stubbly cheeks, and like a gauze curtain, the light snow blurred the hills beyond Howlett. For all the howling and rushing of the night before, the storm had deposited only enough snow to provide a light blanket on the ground. Each hoofprint showed the frozen mud beneath.
A single plume of gray smoke spiraled from the main chimney of the Snug Inn, and flattened mud around the front doors of the inn showed that even though it was far from even early mid-morning, many had already left. Most of the tracks seemed to lead toward the road to Hrisbarg.
Now that there was a new duke, the merchants and traders were losing no time. I shook my head.
Justen eased Rosefoot closer to Gairloch. “Do you want to bargain, or to let me do it as if you were my apprentice? You’re paying.”
“What do I gain?”
“If I do it, everyone will link you with me…”
“But if I do it, they give me greater status and assume I’m the one who rode the deadlands.”
“Perhaps not, but they will think of you in individual terms.”
“It could cost more if you purchase things. You’re a great wizard—although they won’t cheat you on quality.”
Justen smiled. “That covers it. It’s your choice.”
I shrugged. “I’m not up to being a hero this morning. I suspect I’ll have plenty of opportunity in the days to come.”
“The last building on the right,” said Justen. His soft voice carried, yet I had the impression that I was the only one who could have heard it.
Built of the same wide gray planks as the stable of the Snug Inn, with the gaps between the warped edges chinked with dirty mortar, the one-story structure bore no sign, and only the planks that approximated a walkway from a hitching-rail to the battered and red-painted doorway indicated the possibility of a commercial enterprise. A single mule was tethered at the rail as Justen eased himself from the saddle, stepped across the frozen mud crests, and wrapped Rosefoot’s reins to the post. I followed his example, far less gracefully.
Crrrreeeaaaakkk…The three men seated in wooden rocking chairs around the hearth on the left side of the room barely moved, even with the alarm from the hinges of the ancient door. The fire in the hearth, consisting mostly of red coals, barely flickered.
Heaped on four tables between the door and the hearth were all manner of saddle-carried gear—blankets, hand-shovels, hand-axes, canteens, saddlebags—and the majority were frayed and worn. To the left, on five shelves,