The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [103]
“Oh.”
Creslin, noting how fresh she looks despite the straying locks of red hair, fingers the stubble on his cheeks, wondering if he dares shaving on the moving deck. He swallows.
“Please . . .”
He looks away, concentrates on pulling on his boots.
“Thank you.” She remains cocooned within the coverlet.
He picks up the razor, grabs at a thin green towel that is folded on the chest. “I’m going to find somewhere to shave and clean up.”
Out in the passageway, wearing only trousers and boots, he lurches toward the deck, emerging into a clear and windy day.
Klerris stands at the bow, looking into the southeast.
Creslin finally sees what he seeks on the port side near the fantail. After taking care of the necessities, he looks for a way to shave. There is no fresh water, but two buckets hang from lanyards lashed to the railing. He lowers one of the buckets, raises it to the deck, and wets his face thoroughly. At least twice he cuts himself while shaving, and his face stings all over as he rinses away skin and whiskers.
Frowning, he lowers the bucket again, brings it up and sets it on the rail. Then he concentrates. A small pile of white appears on the railing. He dips his finger into the bucket, tastes it, and grins. Then he strips off trousers and boots and uses the fresh water liberally to wash away as much of the travel grime as he can. The wind raises goose bumps on his damp skin, but they disappear as he dries himself and dresses.
Then he procures the other bucket and again obtains fresh water, letting the wind take the dried salt away before heading back to the cabin with the bucket in hand.
When he steps inside, pleased with his success in separating the salt from the water and displeased with the cuts on his chin, he finds Megaera dressed in faded-blue travel clothes and combing her hair.
Creslin searches for a place to put the bucket. “Fresh water,” he points out.
“Thank you.”
As he sets the bucket on the narrow chest, his eyes stray to the chamber pot, which has been moved slightly. “Do we . . . I need to empty . . .”
Megaera grins. “I can still manage some destruction. It’s more convenient that way.”
Creslin blushes again, then replaces his razor and finishes dressing. He looks at his sword but leaves it hanging in the harness on the hook by the chest. Then he adjusts his shirt and tunic.
“I removed the dirt and grime.”
“Thank you.”
At times she seems to be so warm, so friendly. He smoothes his clothes in place. “Biscuits and dried fruit for breakfast.”
“Dried?”
“If you’d like some of it fresh, I might manage.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what landed me on the wizards’ road.”
A soft laugh greets his rueful statement.
“Seems stupid, with everything else I’ve done.”
She nods toward the cabin door.
Creslin opens it, and they take the three or so steps to bring them into the mess room. Freigr is not there, but a man with an air of authority half rises from one of the two tables. At the other table sit three sailors.
“Gossel, first mate. Pleased to have you join us.”
They sit down side by side, across from the brown-haired man with bushy hair caught in a ponytail. On the table are dried fruits, some hard yellow-cheese wedges, and even harder white biscuits. Two heavy brown pitchers sit in built-in holders in the middle of the table.
Gossel leans back and grabs two mugs from a railed shelf. “Here you be.”
“Thank you.” They speak together, then look at each other.
Creslin shakes his head. Megaera smiles faintly.
“Your pleasure . . .” Creslin gestures to the wooden platter of dried fruits.
“Could you actually . . . a fresh peach, I mean?”
“I can try.”
Gossel’s eyebrows knit as Creslin picks up a dried peach. The silver-haired man tried to recall the wondering sense he had felt about the cider. Suddenly a golden orb replaces the dried husk.
“Oh . . .”
He hands the peach to her, then wipes his forehead.
Gossel gulps. “Uh . . . never saw that before. The captain said that all of you are wizards . . .”
“I’m afraid so.” Creslin fills the two mugs with whatever is in the pitcher and offers