The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [33]
“. . . took the big trader without even touching his blade.”
“. . . assassins’ guild . . .”
“. . . you don’t have to talk to him, Derrild. Just pay him . . . couldn’t get his like for two golds anywhere else.”
Creslin smiles faintly at the overestimation of his abilities.
“. . . what do the wizards want now, besides everything between the Easthorns and Westhorns?”
“. . . thank the light . . . never have to go back to Land’s End. Why anyone thinks the place is worth having . . .”
“. . . you can buy anything you want, dearest, once we get to Fenard.”
The chipped crockery bowl of stew arrives in the same unceremonious way as the soapy ale had. A battered tin spoon protrudes from one side of the bowl, and the thin brown liquid drips onto the table, almost onto the wide and crusty slab of bread strewn beside the bowl.
Creslin lifts the spoon. Although the stew is nearly as heavily seasoned as Sarronnese burkha, the combination of peppers and assorted spices drown out the taste of whatever had been passed off for bear. Still, the spiced potatoes., wilted carrots, and shredded meat are an improvement over the field rations he has eaten since he skied off the Roof of the World. The bread is harder than anything carried in his pack, but both stew and bread are improved by eating them together.
“Doesn’t look like a wizard. Too young . . .”
“A wizard can look any age he wants.”
Creslin ignores the speculations, although his foot nudges his pack and sword to reassure himself of their availability. He spoons in the mixture, interspersed with bites from the heavy brown bread, until the bowl is empty. The ale, warm as it is, and even with its faintly soapy tang, cuts the bitter aftertaste of the so-called bear stew. But he is careful to drink as little from the mug as possible.
Creslin has not finished the ale when he stands and shoulders his pack.
“You be done, ser?” The serving woman, who has scarcely seemed to notice him, suddenly appears.
Creslin represses a smile and slips her a copper, guessing that her presence signifies her belief in an undeserved reward of sorts.
“Thanks be to you, ser.” Her voice is polite but not edged.
Creslin swallows his relief at his judgment, and with his pack half on his shoulder, slips around the two sheep-reeking individuals, brushing the shoulder of the nearer with the edge of the pack.
“Hey . . .” The man, with a scraggly black beard, looks at Creslin as if to stand.
“I beg your pardon,” Creslin offers flatly.
The man takes in Creslin’s face and the short sword on the pack and sits down. “Sorry, ser.”
Creslin nods and continues toward the doorway.
“Polite . . . like one of the prefect’s killers.”
“Still say he’s a witch.”
Once outside the Common Room, Creslin turns left and down the stone-walled corridor that leads to his room. A single oil lamp flickers halfway down the hall. Before he enters his room, he pauses, listening, trying to sense whether someone might be within, although he cannot fathom why anyone would take the trouble. The room is empty, and he eases open the door. From what he can tell, no one has been there since he left, and his parka remains on the hook, his gloves protruding from the pockets.
He closes the door.
The bar in place, he sets his pack on the far side of the bed, where he can reach the sword instantly if need be. Then he sits down on the bed, which sags but does not creak, and eases off his boots, followed by the leathers. He folds the leathers on the table.
With the warm coverlet, underclothes are enough, and Creslin still does not like sleeping in his clothes. As an afterthought, he walks to the foot of the bed and checks the underclothes spread out there. They are only damp now. Likely they will be dry in the morning, at least dry enough to put in his too-empty pack. The stone is not as chill under his bare feet as he would have thought, perhaps because of the thermal springs underneath the inn.
His eyes are heavy by the time he slips under the coverlet and blows out the candle.
The room is still dark,