The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [209]
“. . . since we’re still alive,” whispers Megaera.
“. . . and would hope that you would grant us the favor of a brief tour of our vessels . . .”
“. . . so everyone will know that we exist and are the devils of the Eastern Ocean . . .” whispers Megaera again.
“Stop it,” Creslin admonishes. “Take what she has to offer with a smile.”
“Oh, we will . . .”
“I beg your pardon, your grace.”
“We were remarking upon the generosity of the Tyrant, Frewya.” Creslin’s voice is bland. “And we will take the agreements under consideration, though we certainly agree in principle, as you must know, with the need for free trade.” He stands, knowing that Megaera will stand with him, if only to cut short the proliferation of flowery nothings. “We appreciate your undertaking this long and arduous journey. Knowing that you must indeed be tired, we would not wish to impose on your generosity further.”
“Your grace, a last question. It has been rumored . . .”
Creslin cannot help but smile. “There have been so many rumors. Supposedly . . . but no matter. Let me dispel some of them. No, neither the sub-Tyrant nor I intend to claim Montgren, nor, as a matter of cold fact, could we, since it is held by the hard bronze-and-white magic of Fairhaven. Nor do we expect that further use of the storms will be necessary now that the right of Recluce to exist and to trade freely has been recognized.” He shrugs in the direction of the two envoys. “Of course, we retain the right to do what we must should anyone move to—”
“Sarronnyn would certainly not infringe on those rights,” emphasizes the deeper-voiced woman, “but that was not exactly the rumor.”
Creslin reaches for the breezes—cooling the room is not against order, although later will pay for it with a headache—and wafts the winds through the room.
“Nor have I renounced the winds,” he tells them.
“Ah . . . you make your point. However, there is one—”
“I have renounced the use of the blade, but there are many here who are equally capable—” Creslin nods toward Shierra “—such as those who received the same training as I and who have had far greater practice. Our recent experiences indicate that arms must be left to those who are true professionals.”
“Do you have further questions?” Megaera’s voice is like ice, despite the recently all-too-familiar churning that grips both her stomach and Creslin’s.
“Ah . . . not about . . . rumors, your grace.”
“We were asked, by the Tyrant, you understand,” adds the second envoy, “to inquire about the possibility of obtaining an agreement for certain goods such as spices, and after our toast, I have come to believe that indeed she would be interested in your green brandy.”
Creslin swallows a laugh and says politely, “We wish you well.”
After the two envoys leave, Megaera turns to him. “You! You acted worse than Ryessa.”
“I didn’t notice you exactly shrinking away.”
“For whatever reason,” interjects Lydya, “your performance was successful in terrifying both of them.”
“When do we visit the ships?”
“I would suggest immediately . . . unless you want to wait for several days,” Hyel advises.
“Let’s get it out of the way. They won’t off-load unless we visit, and some of us are getting tired of cornmeal.”
CXLIII
CRESLIN AND MEGAERA lead the way down the unrailed gangway. His steps are firm, although each one feels like an act of faith.
“. . . doesn’t act like he’s blind . . .”
“. . . quiet, idiot. He can hear the whispers of yesterday’s gossip.”
Creslin cannot resist. As he reaches the pier, he turns and calls toward the ship. “Not yesterday’s gossip—just this afternoon’s.”
“. . . ulp . . .”
“. . . told you . . .”
“Stop showing off,” hisses Megaera.
Creslin edges to the eastern side of the old pier to avoid the cart and the guards who stand ready to begin the off-loading. “It was necessary, especially since someone has told them I’m blind. Either that, or it’s painfully obvious.”
“Mmmm . . . I understand, but I know you.”
“Does it really matter, as long as they still believe I can hold the winds?”
“Probably not.”
“Besides, you