The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [183]
“I still like the idea.”
“Thank you. But it’s not enough, and I should have known better.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Why not? Someday it might really lead to something, and it will give us a few coins in the meantime. Besides, I’d feel like a fool if I didn’t carry it through now.” He tightens the saddle. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like nothing safe and orderly will save us.”
“Don’t say that.”
“That’s the way I feel. I thought that having a ship would help. We have two, and we can trade in maybe four places on the entire continent. I thought that having more people with more skills would help, and now that we have them, we can’t find enough food to last the coming winter.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
Creslin looks from Megaera’s somber face to the open stable door and back again. “I’ll see you tonight. I need to think.”
“Tonight.” . . . best-beloved. . .
Even her lingering farewell does not warm him as he rides southward past the Black Holding, on the road that he had hoped would one day be a grand highway from one end of the isle to the other.
The sun is low in the western sky, heralding the end of summer . . . and the darker days ahead.
CXXVIII
“I DON’T LIKE it.” Hartor shakes his head. “Someone has been riding the winds around Lydiar, Tyrhavven, Renklaar, and even Hydolar.”
“You think it’s Creslin?” Gyretis leans back in the white-oak chair.
“Who else? It could be the White bitch—”
“She’s not White anymore. Almost pure Black.”
“That’s not wonderful, either.”
“So? What’s the problem?” Gyretis shakes his head. “Half of Candar hates him, and the other half fears him. He has only two ships, and not a great deal of gold or coin. His crops were barely sufficient.”
“The guard bitches brought him the remnants of the Westwind treasury.” Hartor fingers the amulet he wears and walks to the window, where he glances across the white city.
“Fine. That will buy him another trader’s cargo . . . or three. Several eight-days worth of food. It won’t solve his problems.”
“He’s going to do something. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m sure he is. But if we’re careful, we can still come out stronger than before.”
“Stop playing games. Just say what you have to say!” snaps the High Wizard.
“You’re getting edgier than Jenred. Remind me never to consider taking a position of responsibility on the council.” Gyretis straightens in the chair. “Look. In any fight, it really isn’t who wins the battles that counts. It’s what you have left when it’s over. I don’t think that Westwind ever lost a battle. The other thing is that you have to accept the fact that we probably can’t destroy Recluce, at least not while Creslin’s alive. So . . . we want to make sure that our losses are as small as possible and that Creslin can get as little help as possible, because it will take a long time, even now that he’s ensured favorable weather for Recluce, to build up that island without the help of outside gold and resources.”
“That’s sound theory. Making it work could be difficult.”
“Make Creslin use force to get what he needs, and make sure that someone else pays for our losses.”
Hartor snorts. “That’s easier said than done.”
“He needs coin; he needs tools; he needs more food; he needs timber; and he needs skilled craftspeople. He doesn’t have enough coin, and that means he’s going to have to steal it, or steal something that he can turn into coin.”
“And I suppose we should let him?”
“No. But I wouldn’t try to anticipate where he might strike. He’ll destroy whatever forces you send against him. Your best defense is to play the benevolent ruler. Help get Montgren back together. Send extra food. Blame the damage, again, on Creslin, that renegade Black who wants to build an empire. See if you can pay some of the Blacks to help restore the Kyphran orchards. And offer slightly higher prices for Hamorian and Nordlan traded goods . . . but only after delivery in Candar.”
Hartor raises his eyebrows.
“That brings their goods here, leaves their ships on the seas. We have more than enough coin.”
“There