The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [190]
Creslin reins up, casts his thoughts around the area but senses nothing of whiteness or other power. “Where do you live?”
The child looks away.
“Where do you live?”
“In a cave . . .”
Either the boy is honest or Creslin is easily deceived, and he doesn’t have time to sort out the truth. “Here.” This time he has a copper.
“Thank you, your grace.”
Creslin rides on, wondering whether he is supporting the beginning of a class of beggars or whether everyone is beginning to suffer. “Every town has beggars,” he murmurs. But he is not convinced.
Then there is the business of the fish. Should the barrels that contain oatcake be used for salted fish or for aging the green-juice brandy? He needs to talk to Gidman, although the old Hamorian will insist on as many barrels as he can get.
A dull rumble of thunder interrupts Creslin’s thoughts, and he flicks the reins to speed Vola’s pace. Even as he does, the first rush of fine rain brushes across his face.
Megaera waits for him at the keep stable. “I was going to ride to the holding, but I thought I’d wait for you.” She swings up onto Kasma. “What happened?”
Creslin looks at the misty gray overhead, then brushes the combination of mist and rain from his tunic.
“Gossel did the best he could, and I played the fairminded but not terribly merciful Storm Wizard. We still paid too much, but what could we do? He had another fifty barrels of flour, half of it wheat, plus five barrels of dried fruits, hard yellow cheese, olives and olive oil . . . not to mention the caustic and a good hundred stones of iron ore. The high prices are what we have to expect.” He edges the black around, heading back eastward on the road he and Vola have just climbed.
“See? It’s not so bad. You worry too much.”
“Even after what he paid us for the dyes, spices, goblets, and fish, we came out a good fifty golds on the short side. This kind of trading is going to wipe out what was left of the Westwind treasury before much longer.”
“So why did you pay that much?”
“Because it’s likely to cost less now than later. Remember . . . Montgren, Certis, and Kyphros will have no harvests to speak of this year. There’s just not enough coin to stretch.”
“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you just take over the smuggler’s ship?”
“I’m not interested in surviving at any cost. Besides, what good would it have done? His ship is smaller than the Griffin.”
“Expediency again. Would you have thought about it if they’d brought in a ship the size of the Dawnstar?”
“Maybe . . . but it wouldn’t solve the problem, and then not even the rest of the smugglers would trade with us.”
“You’ve come a long way from the Westwind innocent . . . if you ever were.”
“That was unfair.” Creslin snaps the reins to direct Vola away from Megaera and toward Klerris and Lydya’s cot, his guts churning and his eyes burning, whether from his pain and frustration or from hers, he cannot tell.
Then he reins up. What good will talking to the two Black mages do? They are even more constrained than he is.
Megaera eases up beside him again. “There’s nowhere to escape ourselves, best-beloved.”
At least she talks about both of them.
CXXXIII
“I’VE LOOKED AT all the possibilities,” Creslin asserts. “Lydiar isn’t well-guarded, and at times there are half a dozen oceangoing ships in her waters. If we use the weather, there’s a chance that we can capture three or four of them.”
“We have two ships already, and you said they would help. Now you’re saying we need more. When will it stop?” Klerris speaks in a tired voice.
“We don’t have any choice.”
“Would you explain your logic, Creslin?”
Creslin first sips from the deep green crystal goblet produced by Megaera and Avalari. “We have only one true oceangoing ship. Everyone knows that we cannot afford to risk that ship. In addition, with more than one ship, we can keep a steadier flow of goods. Finally, if need be, we can use the ships as