The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [46]
“Pot him,” rumbles Derrild. “Don’t need another thief growing up here.”
“Take off your clothes,” Creslin commands. “Now!” He waits. “Step toward the door. And stay there.”
Although the day is not chill, the youth shivers. Absently, Creslin notes that the two small boys have vanished into some hidey-hole or another.
“Now what?” asks Hylin.
“You pick up the bow, and we keep going. I doubt he’ll attack us, and I have no desire to explain a body.”
“Softhearted bastard,” Derrild grumbles from the cart. He flicks the reins and recovers the bow hastily, but only to slash the string and throw the bow stave into the alleyway as the three pass.
As they draw abreast of the wide-eyed youth, standing only in baggy shorts, Creslin’s eyes fix the dark-haired youngster. “Keep this up and you’ll die before your next birthdate.” His voice chimes silver, like spring thunder, and the youth shudders.
The two guards continue their ride toward an intersection with a larger avenue ahead.
“You know, Creslin,” Hylin observes in a low voice, “you’re one scary bastard. I believe every word of your warning to that kid. So did he.”
“It’s true. How I know, I couldn’t tell you, but it’s true. Sometimes I can know things.” Creslin shrugs. “Other times, I know nothing.” He half-turns and looks back over his shoulder, but the youth has disappeared.
“What are you? Some kind of wizard warrior?”
“I wish . . .” Creslin laughs ruefully. “Then again, maybe I don’t.”
“Enough jabber, you two,” interrupts Derrild, catching up. “There’s the warehouse.”
“I recognize it,” mumbles Hylin.
The warehouse is a stone-walled building the width of several houses; it is three stories high, with a high-pitched roof. While taller than the adjoining structures—a woodcrafting shop toward the square and a linens and dry-goods shop toward the city gate—the warehouse is more than matched by the white stone facades of even taller structures around the square, another hundred cubits down the narrow street.
Derrild’s establishment offers three doors: The first is an open sliding door, level with the rough stones of the street and wide enough to admit Derrild’s cart; the second door is iron-bound and barred; the third door, nearest to the square, is of carved oak under a blue-painted cornice.
Looking upward, Creslin sees that the third story contains household windows. He returns his attention to the sliding doorway, before which Hylin has dismounted. The thin mercenary pushes the slider all the way to the left. Creslin then draws the black gelding out of the way as Derrild guides the cart into the dim light within.
“Need any help?” Creslin asks Hylin.
“No. I’ll close this. Just follow Derrild.”
Inside, to his right, Creslin finds a row of open wooden bins, most of which are empty. In one there are widenecked pottery jars. One jar is cracked and unstoppered. Other stoppered jars rest firmly on the red clay. The bins rise two stories. Stairs and wooden walkways allow access to the second level, where most of the storage is taken up by wooden lockers with locked doors.
Creslin reins in before the six stalls on the rear wall. In one stall, the one closest to the doorway to what Creslin presumes are the trader’s business offices, there is a black mare. The other five stalls are vacant.
Despite the dim light afforded by two high windows on the rear wall and an oil lamp on the wall beside the first stall, Creslin has no trouble in determining that the warehouse is litter-free. His nose confirms that the cleanliness extends beyond the superficial and that the trader maintains order within his premises. Beneath the grumbling, rumbling facade, Derrild is well-organized, as is Hylin.
Creslin pauses. Is that why he had had so little trouble on his trip across the mountains of Candar?
“Let’s get going!”
Creslin dismounts. After leading the black gelding into the third stall, which seems appropriate somehow, he begins to unsaddle the mount, racking the saddle and shaking out and folding the blanket.
The black snorts.
“I know . . .