The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [189]
In the midday heat—reminiscent of the summer before the rains—Creslin wipes his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes. When he looks up, a girl stands by the road, eyes cast down, hands extended.
“A coin, even a copper, noble ser . . . just a copper?” Her brown hair is tangled and dusty. She, too, is barefoot on the hot, sandy clay, and wears a tattered shift with little beneath it. “Just a copper?”
Creslin has no coppers, only a few golds, and he turns toward Megaera.
“All right.” She shrugs and fishes out a coin, lofting it toward the girl.
“Thank you, your grace.”
“Where did she come from?” Creslin asks.
“I don’t know. Did she hide away on the Dawnstar? Or on the last coaster, the one that dumped those people and no supplies?”
They ride in silence the rest of the way to the keep, but the images of the beggar girl and the near-naked boy remain with Creslin . . . and he again calculates how far forty barrels of meal will go.
CXXXII
“IT’S A MIGHTY risk that I be taking to trade here, and what with the bonus I must needs pay my crew . . .” The muscular captain of the Nightbreeze lifts both shoulders, but his hand does not stray far from his sword-hilt, and his eyes rest on Creslin rather than Gossel.
“I can understand your concerns, Captain, but we can’t afford to give away goods, not when we could make the trip to Brista and still do better, even paying our men a double-risk bonus.” Gossel’s voice is smooth. “And his grace, while he is a fair and just man, has been known to act against those who displease him mightily.”
Creslin glances from the foredeck of the Nightbreeze to the masts of the Griffin on the far side of the pier. The Dawnstar is anchored off the Feyn River a good hundred kays south, where Lydya and a group of guards are gathering wild herbs and other edibles that the schooner can transport more easily than horses could haul across the rugged terrain.
Letting Gossel carry the negotiations for the moment, Creslin debates whether he should stir the breezes for effect, then drops the idea when he feels instant queasiness in his stomach. He decides it’s best to save the dubious uses of order for times when more is at stake. Besides, the northwest sea breeze is fresh enough, heralding oncoming clouds and rain.
The smuggler offers; Gossel considers; Creslin looks displeased. Then, after a time, Gossel begins to offer those few goods that Recluce has produced, while the smuggler considers and Creslin still looks displeased.
In the end, the captains shake hands and Gossel and Creslin depart the deck of the Nightbreeze for the pier.
“You think that’s the best we could have done?” Creslin stands on the pier watching as the Griffin’s crew begins to off-load the cargo from the Nightbreeze and to on-load the few goods purchased by the smuggler: a few cases of goblets, several small casks of purple dye extracted from shellfish, Lydya’s spices, and a nearly dozen barrels of salted fish. The amount of fish is limited by the availability of barrels, not by lack of fish or salt.
“Did what I could.” Gossel shrugs. “Maybe we could have gotten more for the goblets. His eye slit when he saw them, but we did well with the spices and the dyes, and a lot better with the fish than I’d have believed. The fish probably went for more because of the poor harvests and all the sheep they lost early in the summer.”
“I appreciate it. You got a sight more than anyone else could have.”
“Appreciate the trust, your grace.”
“Will you need me for anything else?”
“I don’t see as I would, ser.”
“Thank you again. I’ll check back later, but I want to see about some things at the keep.”
Creslin has barely recovered Vola from the inn stable—after having peered in the windows and watched two of the serving women clean tables and prepare for the late-afternoon and evening business—and is riding toward the keep when a thin voice intrudes.
“A copper, your grace? The smallest of coins? My