The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [44]
“They trained me.” He might as well tell some of the truth.
Hylin keeps his face turned from Creslin. “. . . believe that now . . . still don’t understand that bowman.”
Neither does Creslin, exactly, but he knows well enough that it was his doing. He takes a deep breath as they make their way toward the inn. He does not want to talk about the bowman, not tonight. With each new action, he discovers, that he knows himself less. He shivers in the saddle, though he is not cold.
Whnnnn . . .
He shakes his head tiredly. Some things don’t seem to change.
The rain begins to fall again, cold drops—unlike the morning rain.
XXVI
CRESLIN GLANCES TO the right of the trail—rock and more rock, interspersed with patches of old ice, in the deeper crevices. Although the Easthorns are not nearly so high as the Westhorns, they are more barren, with fewer trees and bushes, and drier, as if the snows that fall on the Roof of the World never quite reach across the plains of Gallos.
Yeee-ahhhh. A black vulcrow’s shriek echoes along the narrow trail, followed by the flapping of wings as the scavenger retreats farther eastward down the winding road that leads to Jellico. Creslin feels the white wrongness about the black bird without even extending his sense. At least in the mountains, there are no mosquitos, no flies, and the chill is welcome.
Although Creslin’s parka is full open, Derrild huddles under a heavy fur coat as he sways on the seat of his cart. Hylin’s fur-lined jacket is closed.
The black, more spirited than the bony gelding, sidles edgewise for a moment. Creslin pats the mount’s neck. “Easy.”
The cart wheels almost scrape an outcropping of stone as they round a sharp turn. A wagon would have far more trouble then Derrild’s two-wheeled cart.
“Isn’t there a wider road across the Easthorns?” Creslin calls to Hylin.
“The southern road is nearly twice as wide.”
“Why don’t we take it?”
“It takes almost five days longer,” rumbles Derrild. “Five more days I have to pay you, pay inns, and five days that I cannot sell goods.”
“Oh . . .” Creslin’s voice trails off. His pay is cheap, but Hylin probably draws a silver a day. At five days each way, plus the inn and food costs . . .
“Don’t forget, silver-head,” shouts the trader, “that I can make more trips, or run the shop in Jellico, if each trip takes less time.”
Creslin takes a deep breath, wishing he had never raised the issue.
“And,” rumbles the trader’s voice from the cart behind him, “this road is safer because all the fat caravans take the southern road. Sometimes we don’t see a single bandit. That’s not often, but . . .”
Hylin turns in the saddle and grins, then looks forward and nudges the chestnut to widen the gap between cart and guard.
“. . . and I’m not in this for the thrill, not at my age,” Derrild rumbles on. “A man has to do something when he has a wife and three daughters and but one son. Besides, should I sit in a shop and nod and grow fat? But the travel—at times, I never want to sit upon a horse or a cart ever again.”
“What about the roads?” Creslin asks desperately.
“The roads!” snorts the trader. “What roads?”
The cart scrapes around another switchback, and the road dips toward the plains of Certis.
“These aren’t roads,” the trader continues from atop his cushioned seat. “The only real roads are the ones from Lydiar to Fairhaven, and from Fairhaven to the Easthorns. The wizards build good roads.”
“So why don’t we take them?”
“Because, young idiot, there’s no money in taking roads that everyone travels. You do what everyone does, and you’re poor. Look, you’re a blade. If you’re just as good as the average blade, you’re dead. Right?”
“I suppose so,” ventures Creslin.
Yeee-ahh . . . The vulcrow flaps on down the gradually widening stone-lined valley to perch somewhere out of sight.
“You have to be better, do things others don’t do. That’s true with anything. More skill and more risk—that’s where the rewards are. And,” adds the trader, “more speed. You understand that, I know,