The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [167]
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“I don’t think so.” Creslin pauses to see if his stomach corrects him. It does not.
“You could be honestly mistaken. Being order-tied only means that you can’t intentionally lie, not that you’re infallible when you tell what you think is the truth.” Klerris turns from the rain. “In any case, you’ve already changed the weather. Let’s go in by the fire. I’ll tell you what I know, and then we’ll see what we can do.”
Creslin lingers for a moment in the welcome coolness on the porch before following Klerris into the almost uncomfortable warmth of the cot’s main room.
CXVI
“THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG here, Heldra.” The Marshall pauses and adjusts her formal sword-belt, then steps briskly along the corridor toward the doorway of the grand dining hall.
“Couldn’t it just be from the weather and the lost harvests?”
“Creslin is making things hard on everyone, us included.” A low half-laugh follows. “Poor harvests mean less trade, and less money to pay for guards. Weindre talks about more money, but Suthya hasn’t laid any coin on the table.”
“They’ve always been tight.”
“How well we know.” The Marshall breaks off as she nears the entrance. Two guards and a page await them.
“The Marshall of Westwind! All hail the Marshall!” The page’s voice is thin but clear and piercing.
The Marshall steps through the tapestried archway and up toward the dais, Heldra close behind her, when a second page steps forward and murmurs a word to the training master, who pauses. Two paces, then three, open between the two women.
Hsttt . . . thunnk . . . thunk . . .
The crossbow quarrels sleet from the corner of the banquet hall like the briefest of thundershowers.
Heldra falls under the first of the quarrels, her body pitching on the polished stone floor.
“Darkness . . .”
The black-clad Marshall staggers before her legs buckle under her.
“Get the healer! Now!”
The Westwind guard in charge of the ceremonial squad ignores the cries and gestures toward the corner. The Suthyan nobility dive away from the grim faces and bare steel.
The guards charge the stairs, ignoring the crossbows dropped behind the stone-walled balcony normally reserved for the Suthyan house guards. The blond guard pushes them onward, toward the palace gates.
On the dais, the lone healer checks one body, then another, pausing at a third before shaking her head.
The Marshall lies facedown, three quarrels through her back and chest. Below her, Heldra’s body bears but a pair, one through the neck.
CXVII
MEGAERA CUTS, DRIVING aside the other’s blade. The guard staggers from the impact of the hard wooden rod.
“Good!” Shierra glances from the guard to the regent. “But you’re still not recovering after the thrust. You’re not fighting a duel. You leave the blade down like that and you’ll be congratulating yourself while taking a gut shot. Get the blade back up. As for you, Pietra, you’re holding the blade too low.” Shierra steps forward and adjusts the angle of the wooden weapon. “Like this. You have it here, and you see how she beat past you?”
Pietra nods.
Megaera nods as well, finding her hand automatically repositioning her wand. Then she shakes her head and lowers it before wiping her forehead, damp from both the drizzle and her sweat. “That’s all for now.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Pietra nods again.
“Thank you.”
Megaera returns the wand to the rack, reclaims her blade, and walks quickly to the keep.
CXVIII
CRESLIN SITS IN the wooden chair that he has adopted for his vigils on the winds and casts his thoughts out to the west, toward Candar and Montgren. As usual since he has begun his vigils, there are no fleets in the waters around Recluce, only fishing boats and a three-masted bark headed back in the direction of Nordla.
The weather mage sends his perceptions across the winds to the west, toward the clear skies and drying