The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [45]
Creslin nods, looking ahead toward Hylin’s back.
“And another thing, that’s being honest . . .”
In spite of himself, Creslin listens. He has always heard that traders are among the most corrupt of the merchants.
“Honesty pays, boy. Not in any darkness-loving, mealy-mouthed way. No . . . it pays in cold, hard cash. People trade with you. They hold goods for you, because you keep your word. Good guards work for you, because you pay what you promised. And the other thing is, if you’re honest with yourself, then you don’t lie to yourself, and you don’t try and tell yourself you can do something that’s stupid. Lying to yourself’ll kill you, if it doesn’t ruin you first.”
Creslin frowns, looking ahead. Now that he thinks about it, Derrild has been foolish once or twice. He has been loud. He has bargained hard, but he has never tried to cheat anyone.
“But it’s still hard, with all the travel . . .”
XXVII
CRESLIN LEANS FORWARD in the saddle. Ahead and to his right, the sun glints off the river below. To his left, the road widens into a broad, stone throughway that leads toward the open gates. The wheels of the trader’s cart echo on the hard and even pavement.
Unlike the smaller towns of Gallos and Certis, Jellico has walls, walls rising more than fifty cubits. The southern gates stand open on massive iron fittings. The grooves for anchoring those gates and the stones in which they have been chiseled are swept clean.
A full squad of men—twelve or more—in gray-brown leather patrols the gate, inspecting each traveler entering, each person departing.
“Master Derrild, it’s been a while. Some were a-saying you’d gone too far.” The serjeant’s voice is respectful, but friendly. His paunch does not quite bulge out of the leathers.
On the wall overhead, barely visible behind the parapet crenelations, a pair of crossbowmen sit lazily in the sun, their weapons resting on wooden frames within a cubit of each man.
“These your men?” asks the Certan serjeant, inclining his head toward Hylin and Creslin, who have dropped back abreast of the cart.
“You’ve met Hylin before,” rumbles Derrild. “Creslin, here, joined me out of Bleyans after Berlis took a fancy to a lady whose family decided he’d taken too much of a fancy. Hope he likes being a cooper!” Derrild’s laughter echoes against the stones.
The serjeant smiles politely. “It is good to have you back, Master Derrild. Have a good day.” His eyes do not smile with his mouth, and his glance has rested more than once on Creslin’s silver hair.
The three move on into the town. The houses are mostly of fired brick; narrow, two storied structures with pitched roofs, and heavy, iron-bound oak doors, closed despite the sun and the spring warmth.
“I’ll get you, Thomaz! I’ll get you!” The high-pitched voice comes from a small, ragged figure chasing another toward the trader’s party.
“Watch the horses!” screeches a woman in a leather skirt as the two boys run along the rough stones of the byroad. “Watch the horses!”
“Watch the side!” snaps Hylin.
Creslin tears his glance from the children and the woman and glances toward the alleyway on the left, perhaps thirty cubits ahead. Even without the breezes, he can sense someone waiting there. “Someone in the alleyway ahead.” He reaches for the bow, grabbing for an arrow.
Hylin reins up short. “Make them come to us.”
As Derrild pulls the mule to a halt, the two boys stop their race and turn, scuttling toward the right side of the narrow street. The woman halts and reaches for something.
“Stop!” shouts Creslin, arrow nocked and ready to release.
The woman, not a woman at all, but a thin youth, drops the bow, then looks nervously toward the alleyway.
Creslin smiles faintly as he hears the scuffling of footsteps fading away, leaving the youth and the two boys standing there alone.
“They’re gone,” sniffs Hylin. “Couldn’t get us by surprise. So they’ll not stay and fight.”
“Please . . .” pleads