The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [47]
“Don’t take forever,” Hylin calls.
“I know,” repeats Creslin. “We’re the ones who have to unload the mules, right?”
“Right.”
It is not the unloading that is difficult, but the climbing up the stairs and the determination of which items go to which bins or lockers.
“Not there! The purple glazes go in the next locker, that one,” calls the trader. “The cerann oils, just carry them one at a time. I couldn’t afford it if you broke two at once. Neither could you. They go on the second level, fifth door down, with the green leaf.”
“The one that says ‘cerann’?” asks Creslin.
“Yes. How did you know that’s what it says?”
“I can read,” the former consort snaps. “How else?”
“Oh, I didn’t—”
“Never mind. I never said.”
Some of the unloading goes more easily from that point, since Creslin is handed the goods that bear clearly labeled destinations. He suspects that everything labeled is either heavy, delicate, expensive, or all three, and tries to watch his footing.
“It figures . . .” he mumbles under his breath as he lugs up the last jar of something called porthernth, the sweat streaming down his forehead.
“You about done?” calls Hylin.
“Yes. Finally.”
As Creslin clumps down the unrailed steps, Derrild motions both men toward him. The trader stands by the doorway that leads to the quarters. “You get a dinner, a bed, and a meal in the morning, plus your pay,” he explains expansively. “We’ll settle the accounts after dinner.”
“How about a horse?” Creslin suggests.
“The horse is worth more than you, young fellow, good as you are.” Derrild turns toward Hylin.
“Wait,” observes Creslin. “You had the gelding. The black’s a far better horse.”
Derrild pauses, his face twisting for a moment, then smoothing. “There is that. I do owe you for the upgrade. Probably two silvers’ difference, and I’ll split it with you.”
Creslin sighs. “More like a gold’s difference.”
“I can’t sell the black,” notes Derrild. “It’s really too good for a trader, but I’ll give you two silvers instead of one. If I go through the horse brokers, I won’t get more than three or four silvers.”
Creslin reaches out faintly, senses that the trader is both scared and telling what he believes to be the truth. “All right. Two silvers it is.”
Derrild lets out a heavy breath. “You can wash up. Hylin can show you where. By then, dinner should be on the table.” He turns with another heavy breath.
“Good,” snorts the mercenary.
Creslin pulls at his sweaty and stubbled chin. Derrild, the trader—scared? Creslin reaches for his pack. He not only wants to wash up; he wants to shave and more.
“Anywhere I can wash out what I’m wearing? Not the leathers, the rest of it.”
“Since the washroom’s where we get to lather up, I doubt that anyone would mind,” Hylin answers, hoisting his own pack.
Creslin follows him, not that they go more than a dozen steps. Two large tubs filled with lukewarm water await them. Almost wishing that he could submerge himself, Creslin contents himself with a thorough wash and shave.
Following Hylin’s example, he leaves his sword and pack hanging on a post in the washroom. Unlike Hylin, he dons a fresh shirt, without a tunic over it, and he has cleaned his boots as well as he can. His other shirt hangs on the drying rack, as do his underclothes.
“You’d think this were a castle, the way you clean up,” Hylin says.
“Compared to some places I’ve been, it is.” Creslin follows Hylin to the dining room.
The long red-oak table is polished, oiled, and only slightly battered along its near eight-cubit length, and there are wooden armchairs, not benches, for the nine who gather.
Derrild, his beard now trimmed and wearing faded and comfortable red tunic and trousers, nods toward his household. “My wife Charla, my son Waltar and his wife Vierdra, and young Willum, and my daughters Derla and Lorcas.”
Creslin inclines his head to Charla, then bows slightly. “Honored, lady, and I thank you for your hospitality.”
The blond daughter named Lorcas leans toward her sister and murmurs something that Creslin