The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [110]
“Good. That should be adequate. Find an excuse to display that skill. It will save you a lot of trouble later.” Freigr lengthens his stride toward the bleak, black-stone structure ahead.
The white-fir doors are plain, and stand open. Inside wait a lanky, brown-haired man in a gold-and-green surcoat, much like Freigr’s, and a swarthy, short man. Each sports a well-trimmed beard; the tall man’s beard is shot with threads of white, unlike his hair.
The Griffin’s captain tenders the document case to the lanky man in the gold surcoat. “The Duke’s latest proclamation, Hyel. It concerns . . . us all.”
“Must be important, Captain, since you have brought it yourself.”
“A second messenger will bring information.”
“Very important, then.” The narrow-faced, swarthy man to the right leans over to read the parchments held by the guard captain.
The two men behind Hyel and his assistant—the same two who had met the travelers at the pier—shuffle their feet while Hyel slowly puzzles through the documents.
As he waits, Creslin studies the long room that comprises the entire main floor of the building. The outside walls are of a native stone, almost black. The narrow windows are uncovered except for outside shutters, which are fastened open. The ceiling beams are rough-cut, and several of them still ooze sap.
Megaera looks at the four Duke’s men, her eyes moving from Hyel and the narrow-faced man to the black-haired and short, bearded youngster on his left, and then to the blond, well-muscled giant on the right. Klerris appears to look nowhere, while Freigr shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“Fine documents they are,” affirms Hyel, “and the Duke’s seal is clear enough.”
“Why would he even name a regency?” asks the narrow-faced man as he raises his eyes from the ornate script. “There’s just us and a bunch of fisherfolk.”
“That’s simple, Joris.” Hyel grins. “This here young wizard is the son of the Marshall of Westwind . . . you know, those women guards who chewed up the wizard’s allies. And this young lady is the younger sister of the Tyrant of Sarronnyn. That makes her the Duke’s cousin. I figure that the Duke needs more help, and a regency doesn’t give away the isle. It’s a sort of loan.” He laughs.
“I don’t like it much.” Joris’s dark-brown eyes flick from Creslin to Megaera.
“Welcome to the holding of Recluce. I am Hyel, guard captain and, until you arrived, the Duke’s representative.” Hyel bows so low, arm extended, that his long fingers almost touch the dusty planks. His smile shows strong, white, and uneven teeth. “I have mentioned Joris, and the other two are Thoirkel and Zarlen.”
Creslin inclines his head. “Creslin. This is Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn and regent of Recluce.”
Hyel merely nods without speaking.
“You claim no title?” Joris asks of Creslin.
“There are no titles in Westwind. I would not claim any if there were.”
Hyel turns toward Klerris’s black-robed figure, raising his eyebrows.
“Klerris, formerly of Fairhaven and still of the Black order.”
“Damned wizard . . .” This time Zarlen speaks.
“That may be, but I am mostly a healer.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to have one,” offers Thoirkel, speaking for the first time since greeting Freigr in the harbor.
“The real question is, where will you stay?” muses Hyel. “We are not suited . . . and little building is done . . . has been done—”
Creslin smiles. “I suspect that we may be able to adapt one of the empty fisher cots until we can build something.”
“No masons or carpenters here . . . not now,” observes Joris.
“We’ll manage.”
A look passes between Zarlen and Joris.
Creslin catches the look, and his guts tighten, but he smiles pleasantly. “It’s been a long voyage. Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to spar a bit with me.” He ignores Megaera’s indrawn breath.
This time, Hyel and Zarlen exchange glances.
“Well, ummm . . . begging your pardon, ser, but that could cause—” Hyel begins.
“Nonsense,