The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [176]
“. . . . more faith than I have, sometimes . . .” Creslin mutters to himself.
He walks to the doorway.
“Come out on the porch. Lydya’s down at the inn.” Klerris’s voice carries from the porch.
Creslin shuts the door behind him and joins the Black mage. “I see that the stoneworkers have been busy.” He gestures at the glistening slate roof of the nearest cot.
“They’re going to build a place off the piers. A warehouse, they said.”
“What?”
Klerris grins. “They have faith. Yord—he’s the grizzled one—says that once you win, everyone will want to start trading and he’ll be able to charge top gold for a ready trading office.”
“Win? I can’t even pay for supplies. The Duke’s dead. The Marshall and Llyse are scarcely cold in the ground, and I still can’t get the weather right.”
“You’re certain Korweil’s dead?”
“Aren’t you?”
Klerris sips from a tumbler of water and says nothing.
“We almost lost everything to the heat and drought, and now we’re about to lose what’s left to the rain, unless this works out.” Creslin shakes his head. “Light! I can’t even sing anymore.” He pauses. “Why would I have trouble singing?”
“I know order, Creslin, not music.” Klerris finishes the tumbler of water and sets it on the table before walking to the front of the porch.
“I don’t think it’s the music. I think it’s me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The Black mage does not face the regent. “Are either you or Megaera going to claim the title?”
“Korweil’s? I certainly don’t plan to. I’m not even related. I haven’t mentioned it to Megaera.”
“You haven’t—” Klerris shakes his head. “Sometimes you two amaze me. You share minds, almost, yet the most obvious issues—”
“We didn’t discuss it, I think because we feel the same way. At least I think we do.”
“Assuming the obvious can lead to trouble.”
“Tell me about it.” Creslin sets himself on the back half-wall of the porch. “But I don’t intend to be a pretend duke of a Duchy swallowed by Fairhaven.”
“It would make your claim here stronger.”
Creslin snorts. “One way or another, it won’t come to that.”
“You’re probably right. Who could contest you two?”
“Enough of titles that don’t matter. I asked you about my trouble with singing. You said that you wouldn’t be surprised at it.” Creslin’s eyes narrow.
“Why not?”
“I’d say that you’re off balance. You’ve used order too creatively, and you’re probably thinking of doing even worse.”
“Worse?”
“Listen to your own words. You don’t have enough coinage. You can expect no aid from Montgren or Westwind, and you don’t want to count on Ryessa. Just what are you considering?”
“Nothing . . . Yet.”
“Creslin, even you cannot go around evading the order-chaos balance forever. You’re going to pay in one way or another. The fact that you have trouble with your music indicates that something’s wrong.”
“What am I supposed to do? Let everyone starve in an orderly fashion?”
“I told you in the beginning that I don’t have all the answers. You asked me what I thought the problem was. I told you. You’re the one who doesn’t like the answer.” Klerris’s eyes are level with Creslin’s.
“It’s not a pleasant answer. You’re saying that I have to choose between order and letting people starve.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said that you’ve been using order too dangerously. And the number of souls you’ve dispatched with that blade hasn’t helped either.” Klerris shrugs. “I understand your frustration. That’s one reason the Blacks have nowhere to go. We can’t handle that kind of conflict very well.”
Creslin bounds to his feet. “Darkness! Just what I need. Now that I’m halfway there, you’re saying that there’s nothing you can do. If I use any more order, I’m courting danger. If I use my blade, that’s dangerous. Just how am I supposed to get us out of this mess?”
“Preferably without more killing and violence,” answers the mage dryly. “Me included.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry. You’re still angry at me because I don’t have any magical answers. There aren’t any.”
Creslin understands that Klerris is telling the truth as he sees it, and his guts turn as he considers