The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [39]
Creslin says nothing. Is the Legend enough reason for the Westwind guards’ success? Or is that just what other people say, while they ignore the precision and the training that create a guard?
The lowlands between the river and the walls bear the green haze of a recently planted crop, but there are no farmhouses, no fences. Creslin turns in the saddle to look back to the river, then smiles as he understands the city’s defenses. Doubtless there are hidden gates in the levees that would flood the lowlands, turning those fields nearly a kay wide into marsh and mud.
The hooves of the horses and mules clatter on the causeway leading to the outer city wall. Although the gates are massive and sit on steel hinges and pillars guarded by even more massive granite walls, only a pair of guards, and those high on the wall, oversee the actual entrance to the city.
“Let’s get to the Gilded Ram,” wheezes the trader. “Long day tomorrow. And you’ll get an education, western boy. Will you get an education!”
“Education?” Each question Creslin asks makes him feel less sophisticated, but there is so much he does not know.
“That’s Derrild’s way of saying that while the prefect may be rather distant, the women here can be very friendly.”
“They can be so friendly that they end up with everything you own and then some,” grouses the trader without looking at either of his hired guards. “Take the second wide street we come to. The Ram is on the left side, by a woodcrafting shop, before we get to the Great Square.”
Not understanding how he is supposed to take directions from places he will not even reach, Creslin throws his senses to the light spring breezes that swirl around him, trying to locate a great square.
A Great Square there is, thronged with people and small merchants. But beyond and behind, or perhaps above and behind, Creslin also finds a mist, a reddish-white smokiness invisible to his eyes, that hangs over the city like an unseen pall, or fog. Even the lightest touch of that smokiness twists his stomach, and he is forced to withdraw into himself almost as soon as he has located the Great Square.
He sways in the saddle for an instant before his reflexes and training take over.
“You all right?”
“Yes.” Creslin wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “It will pass.” Yet he wonders what it is about the city that bothers him, even after they are unsaddling in the stable behind the Gilded Ram.
Derrild appears from the inn with a grim look on his face. “Get those mules unloaded. That locker there!”
Hylin and Creslin exchange glances, but not words.
“You have to clean out the stalls before we leave in the morning,” announces Derrild while the two guards begin unloading the bags and transferring them into a solid red-oak locker encircled in black iron.
“We’re not stable hands,” snaps Hylin, halting with a bag in his arms.
“I know. It’s worth an extra day’s pay.”
“Just this time,” concedes the thin mercenary, handing the bag to Creslin, who stacks it in the rear corner of the locker.
“Agreed,” sighs the trader, and he begins to remove certain small packages from the cart and place them within his own pack. He looks at the locker and shakes his head. “They say it’s safe.” He shakes his head again. “Keep the glaze powder until the last.”
Hylin nods. “You want it tipped so that it falls if anyone else opens the locker?”
Derrild nods glumly. “Waste of good glaze powder, but what can you do? Robbers even here in Fenard. They’re all thieves.”
“They wouldn’t let you bring the stuff into the inn?”
“No. Some order of the prefect’s. I tried the Brass Goat across the way, but they said the same thing. Two inns caught fire last year. The idiots were carrying cammabark.”
Creslin looks up blankly, then staggers under a bag of heavy and lumpy objects Hylin thrusts at him. “Cammabark?”
“It’s a wet root that grows in the southern marshes. When it dries, it burns almost like demon-fire. Anyone with