The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [187]
“Waa . . . daaa . . . gooo . . .” Lynnya lunges for the broom, nearly wresting herself from her mother’s arms.
“Lynnya, how will we ever get the floors swept? I put you down and you crawl into everything . . .”
“I’ll take her for a little bit.” Creslin holds out his hands. “The Dawnstar won’t reach the pier for a time yet.”
“Your grace . . .”
“I think I can manage.”
“Daaa gooo . . .” Lynnya twines pudgy fingers into the hair of his forearm and twists.
“Now . . . not that way.” Creslin swings her up so she is looking over his shoulder.
The small hand waves, then seizes upon his hair.
“You little minx . . .” Creslin carries her back toward the terrace, wondering what ever possessed him to suggest baby-sitting for the little redhead, even for a short time.
Aldonya shakes her head, and watches as the wizard carries her daughter from the shadows of the covered walk into the morning light on the terrace. She watches for a moment longer, then lifts the broom.
Creslin sits down on the wall, holding Lynnya in his lap with an arm around her middle. The baby squirms and leans down toward the stones. “All right.” He lowers her carefully to the terrace floor. She squirms again, one hand reaching for his boots. Inside, the vigorous swishing of the broom begins.
Lynnya reaches for a dead millipede, her chubby fingers closing on the small gray remnant.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Creslin disengages her fingers, sweeps her into the air and back onto his shoulder.
“Daaa! Gooo, ooooo . . .”
“I know you don’t approve, but your mother doesn’t want you eating bugs. Things aren’t that bad. Not yet, anyway.”
“Unmmm.” A chubby fist goes against her mouth.
Creslin walks to the south side of the wall, looking at the oak seedling, its few leaves trembling in the breeze.
“Uuummm . . . da!”
“Oooww.” He gently removes Lynnya’s hand from his hair. A few silver strands float free in the wind. “You are a grabby child, aren’t you?”
“Goo . . .”
“I’m not certain I believe it.” Megaera stands on the terrace, grinning. “As much as I’d like to watch, I think you need to get ready. I can see the Dawnstar’s sails already.”
“I said I’d hold—”
“I’ll take her while you wash up . . . unless you want to look like a stonemason. What are you doing, anyway? All the stonework is finished, isn’t it?”
He inclines his head as she approaches. “Just something for a little oak.”
Megaera shakes her head as she extends her arms to take Lynnya. “Come on, little one. Your uncle can’t stand to be idle for a moment, can he?”
“Uncle?”
“It’s as accurate as any other description. And it’s true that you don’t relax.”
Creslin refrains from comment, instead handing over one redhead to the other and retrieving a towel.
By the time he has washed and dressed, Megaera has returned Lynnya to her mother and is saddling Kasma. Creslin follows her example with Vola, and before long, they ride northward and down to the inn, where they will leave the horses.
The Dawnstar looks battered, whether from the trip or from other circumstances, Creslin can’t tell.
“Freigr had a hard trip.” Megaera edges toward the spot where Synder and another crewman lower the gangway onto the pier.
“Looks that way.”
Freigr waits for them by the helm.
Creslin leans over the railing and looks down at the gouges on the Dawnstar’s fantail. “This because of your problems?”
“That was from the Devalonian catapult. Load of stones.”
“Why—” asks Megaera.
“Because the Suthyan merchants guild embargoed us, and only a handful of the smaller traders would deal with me. They won’t do it again.”
“Why not?”
“Three of them were arrested. We left Armat in a hurry.”
“Weindre’s tied up with the Whites?”
“I should have guessed. Idiot,” mutters Creslin.
Megaera and Freigr wait for him to explain.
“According to what Shierra found out from her sister, Weindre set up . . . the Marshall of Westwind. The Whites were behind the trap, and they were the ones who used those devil’s explosions to kill Llyse and the senior guards.”
“Well, that explains