The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [173]
“I was glad for the rain.”
“We’ve had a bit much, but I hope we’ve fixed that.”
CXXI
THE SILVER-HAIRED woman looks from the singer back to the guard commander on her right. She ignores Krynalleen, the thin-faced arms-master who sits on her left.
“I don’t like it, your grace,” Aemris says. “The Tyrant didn’t rebuild Nonotrer . . . before. Now there’s even less of a threat.”
“We should attack them? After losing two squads in Suthya?” Llyse sips from the black goblet. “And nearly another to the Analerian bandits? We’re being bled dry.”
“I never said that. But it bothers me.”
“It bothers me, too. And that business of the footprints. There’s at least a squad of invisible warriors somewhere above the high road.”
“It bothers us all,” puts in Krynalleen. “White devils.”
“Wizards’ business,” snaps Aemris. “I’ve doubled the outriders. They can’t spend the winter up here, not once the snows are deep. Then we’ll get them.”
“We don’t have that much here to get anyone,” Llyse comments, “not with the Sarronnese commitment. Not with the losses we took to Southwind. I’m not renewing—”
“You don’t trust the Tyrant?”
“Trusting a woman who would abandon her own sister to the White devils isn’t exactly the smartest thing to do. If we weren’t so short of hard coin . . .”
“You did send supplies to the consort,” Aemris reminds her.
Llyse’s eyes flare, but her voice remains level. “Those were things we couldn’t turn into coin and couldn’t use.” She pauses. “Anyway, see me in the morning.”
Aemris looks toward the singer at the cleared end of the dais.
“The man song . . . the man song . . .” cries a guard from the middle tables.
With a shrug toward the high table, the minstrel slips off the stool, sets down the guitar, and opens the pack behind him. After a moment, he withdraws an object that he unfolds into a long fan shaped as a sword. With a bow, he begins.
Ask not what a man is,
that he scramble after flattery as he can . . .
. . . after all, he is but a man . . .
As he sings, the minstrel, dressed in shimmering, skintight tan trousers and a green silksheen shirt, prances toward the high table, thrusting the fan suggestively.
“. . . and, after all, he is but a man!”
The minstrel bows, accepting the applause, before setting aside the comic fan and recovering his guitar. A single whistle lingers after the clapping dies away. He sits down on the stool, adjusts the tuning pegs, and lets his fingers caress the strings. Finally he clears his throat softly.
. . . and in the summer, and under the trees,
my love will lift you across the farthest seas . . .
The applause is scattered, and he smiles wryly before adjusting the guitar again and beginning a march. Immediately the younger guards pick up the rhythm with their clapping.
. . . honor bright, honor bright . . .
. . from the mountain’s height . . .
After two more similar songs, the minstrel slides off the stool, holds up his hands, and bows. While the clapping fades, he sets aside his guitar and rummages in his pack for a moment before retrieving a package—almost a half a cubit on a side—that he carries toward the high table and the new Marshall.
Llyse stands for the minstrel. “It is good to see you again, Rokelle of Hydlen.”
“I am honored, your grace.” The figure is still slender, the voice still youthful, though the brown hair has thinned and the gray at his temples is more pronounced. The once-fine lines radiating from the flat brown eyes are heavier and deeper. “Especially that you would recall a mere traveling singer.”
“Those who sing are always welcome.” Her eyes narrow, but she steps forward.
“A token for you, Marshall of Westwind.” The minstrel’s voice is curiously dull behind the mellow tones as he holds the cloth-covered object as if to extend it to her.
“A rather large token.” Llyse raises her eyebrows.
The minstrel inclines his head. “I thought you might find it of interest.” Easing his burden onto the table, he lifts the cloth.
“Oh . . .”
Aemris leans forward.