The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [109]
From the flat ground behind the harbor, a pier protrudes. At the shore end of the pier there squats a small black-stone building. Behind that building, a gentle slope, surfaced in sand and stone, rises until it reaches an ever-steeper slope. The lower slope, showing a few bushes and trees at random, contains a scattering of perhaps a dozen small cots, or hovels. Tall grasses wave in the light breeze.
“Desolate indeed,” murmurs Klerris.
A single road angles from the pier westward to the top of a rise. There the gray-black stones of a two-story building bear the gold-and-green banner of Montgren.
“Where will we stay? All I see is that second-rate keep on the hill and some tumbledown fishing cots.” Megaera continues to study Land’s End as the sailors scurry across the deck and begin to work the sails.
“We’ll have to build our own palace, ” Creslin quips.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“What else can we do?”
“I can help with the beams,” offers Klerris. “The pines in the canyons will have to do, though. There’s nothing like oak here. Not yet, anyway.”
Creslin and Megaera turn.
“Blacks learn useful trades in addition to their wizardly skills, ” the black-haired man explains, “I do carpentry now and again.”
“Regents building their own palace . . . ridiculous,” mumbles Megaera.
“Perhaps,” offers Klerris, “But are there any alternatives?”
Once the Griffin is tied up in the deep water near the end of the pier, out beyond a fishing boat so battered and waterlogged that it looks ready to sink at any moment, Freigr appears on deck in the gold-and-green coat that he has not worn since leaving Tyrhavven. “Might as well get this over.” He lifts the leather dispatch case. “While we’re gone, Snyder will see that the horses are saddled and off-loaded. He’s done it often enough, darkness knows.”
“What about our packs?” asks Creslin, checking his shoulder harness and his replacement Westwind blade, secured from the depths of the Duke’s armory and sharpened.
“He’ll take care of them also. Plus a few other supplies we can spare, as suggested by . . .” The captain nods toward the Black Wizard. “Shall we go? It’s a steep walk.”
“Ummm . . .” Megaera closes her mouth.
Creslin smothers a grin.
“Ah, here come some of the garrison.”
On the end of the pier stand two soldiers, wearing leathers and swords.
“They haven’t learned that we never bring anything interesting.” Freigr glances at Megaera. “This time, though—”
“I doubt that they will find me that interesting,” suggests the redhead.
“Let’s go,” repeats Freigr.
On the open pier, the wind whips through Creslin’s short hair and tosses Megaera’s shoulder-length flames in every direction.
“Captain?” A black-haired soldier with a scraggly beard steps toward the group, lank locks falling across his forehead.
“Nothing new, except for this group, who are likely to be very interesting,” Freigr tells the soldiers.
“Very interesting . . .” murmurs the blond, gray-eyed man at the edge of the pier, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Freigr grins at him. “I’d be careful, Zarlen. All three of them are wizards, and Creslin, here, is reputed to know a little bit about blades.”
Megaera lifts one hand, and a small flame dances on her fingertips. The dark-haired soldier steps back; the blond man smiles faintly. Creslin takes a deep breath but says nothing as the two soldiers turn to follow them.
“How many men are there in the keep?” Creslin asks as he and the captain lead the way up the sandy road.
“Not many more than a score. There were more, but the Duke took them back to Montgren.” The sandy-haired captain glances back over his shoulder, then adds in a lower voice, “Mostly troublemakers left.”
Creslin nods, glad of the sword across his back.
“Are you as good as they say with that blade?” Freigr asks.
Creslin debates an answer; then feeling