The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [181]
Creslin nods to the mate supervising the deck work, and both he and Megaera are rewarded with a casual salute. “Good day, your graces.”
“Good day.”
“Good day.”
Creslin grins at their simultaneous responses, then sobers. “Fine, you’re producing splendid goblets, and most of the fall spice crop will survive. We send it south and we get half of what it’s worth. We try to send it east, and what’s to keep the Hamorians from seizing the Dawnstar? It was theirs once, after all.”
“You think they would?”
“I don’t know. Can we afford to risk it now? We can last for a while, even though losing a few golds, as long as we get the goods . . . and as long as we don’t lose a ship. Or too many crops. Or get too many more refugees.” Creslin’s footsteps echo on the stones of the pier.
“Did what Fiera brought help?” Megaera brushes her hair back over her right ear.
Creslin laughs harshly. “Help? We’d be at the edge without that chest. But what other miracles can we expect? And at what price?” He shakes his head. “She’s sharp, sharper in some ways than Shierra.”
“Oh . . . is that because you once loved her?” Megaera looks at the open window of the public room as they walk toward the stable, where Vola and Kasma wait.
“Some jealousy there? At least she has brains, unlike that perfumed fop Dreric.”
“Best-beloved, I know what you felt toward Fiera. How could I not . . . on the pier?”
The combination of pain and anger stills his tongue more than the coldness of her words. “I’m sorry. It still hurts. She gave us everything, and . . . what can I return?”
“She knows that. And you did give her something. Everyone saw the grief and lost love on your face there on the pier. In time, that will help.”
Their feet echo on the stones leading to the Inn stable.
“What I meant was that she saw, right at the time, that Westwind was doomed, and she moved everything she could.” Creslin turns toward the stable door.
“Was it truly doomed?”
“Yes. What was left in the treasury, after they chartered the coaster and paid for all the cargo they brought wouldn’t have been enough for the winter supplies. The Whites also killed most of the sheep, and you can’t rebuild flocks in a year, the way you can with a bad field crop.” He pauses in the open stable door.
“Sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes what?”
“Nothing.” Megaera steps toward the stall and Kasma.
Creslin leads out the black and swings into the saddle. He does not need to wait, for Megaera has matched his actions, and they ride toward the keep.
His eyes traverse the town. Three or four more houses have sprung up on the hillside below the keep, and the warehouse promised by the two stonemasons rises perhaps two hundred cubits east of the inn.
At times, Land’s End almost resembles a town.
CXXVII
“HALLO!” CRESLIN’S VOICE echoes through the still-empty public room.
“Hold to! Hold to!” grumbles a voice.
Despite the emptiness, the tables are clean and the stone floor has been freshly swept. Chairs and benches stand ready for the customers that the afternoon will bring, for there are no ships in the harbor, and no one from the town or the keep has time to while away in the earlier part of the day.
“We’re not open—oh, your grace.” The narrow-faced woman inclines her head to him.
“I know. I need to buy a bottle of that green-juice wine.”
“That . . . ? Green juice?”
Creslin can’t help smiling. “I want to see what can be done with it. The tartness has possibilities, I’m told.”
“That swill? There be no understanding tastes, your grace.” The woman turns back into the kitchen with an iron key in her hand. “Be just a moment, your grace.” After the rasping release of a heavy lock, a clanking of bottles, and the relocking of the storeroom, she returns and thrusts two bottles at him. “Two’d be strong enough for any lightning spell.”
“Too strong, I suspect. What do I owe you?”
“Not a copper, your grace. Can’t be charging the owner, now can we?”
“Thank you.”
The woman is still shaking her head as Creslin departs.
Outside, he places a bottle in each empty saddlebag, then mounts and turns Vola toward