The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [50]
Derrild looks at the ledger; the silver-haired youth senses his relief.
Hylin nods, as if to say that he approves.
“One moment, gents. If you’d wait outside . . .”
They stand, and Creslin follows Hylin out while the trader closes the door, trying not to be too obvious about the bar he sips into place.
“Habit . . .” Creslin murmurs.
“You’re a strange one, Creslin,” Hylin says slowly. “You don’t know the east, but you act like a prince and fight like a demon, and sometimes I think you can hear what people think . . . and then you want to risk it all by walking into Fairhaven.”
“I don’t know that I have any choice. Nobody else can teach me.”
“They might not teach you either . . . just might want you dead. You better be real careful. Don’t let them think you’re anything but a blade for hire.”
What the thin man says makes sense, unfortunately. Too much sense.
“Here you go, gents . . .”
Derrild hands each man a small leather bag.
Creslin slips the coins from the bag into the inside pocket of his belt, folds the bag, and tucks it into the belt also.
“Hylin . . . can you show Creslin where to sleep?”
“No problem.”
“See you in the morning. I have more to do with the ledgers yet tonight.”
After recovering his pack, Creslin follows Hylin up a narrow stairway from the second level to the third. “We’re at the end of the family quarters.”
The room has two large, if single, beds and an oil lamp in a heavy brass sconce on the wall. A high table with open shelves underneath provides space for packs and other small gear.
“I may see you later.” The thin mercenary sets his pack on one end of the high table.
“You’re not sleeping here?”
“That depends . . . I need to see an old friend.” Hylin grins. “Besides, I’m sure that Derrild’s daughters wouldn’t appreciate me hanging around to interrupt their sweet-talk. Which one do you prefer?”
Creslin shakes his head. “Prefer? I’m—”
Hylin grins again as he walks out, whistling softly. Creslin sits down on the edge of the other bed, listening to the mercenary whistle his way down two flights of stairs before closing a door.
Shortly thereafter, Creslin hears light steps. He listens carefully. He can’t even straighten out his feelings about the nighttime visit—or was it just a dream—by the lady called Megaera, and now he is about to have visitors.
A blond head peers in the doorway.
Creslin laughs. “Hello, Willum. Come to say good night?”
The child’s face is clean and he wears a long nightshirt. “How many men have you killed? Grandpa said you were the greatest blade he ever saw.”
Creslin sighs. “I have killed a few—”
“How many? I’ll bet it’s a whole lot.”
Creslin shakes his head. “It’s better to avoid killing, Willum. Grow up and be a good trader like your grandpa.”
Two other blond heads stand behind the boy.
“Rather profound for someone so young . . .” Vierdra smiles as she speaks. “Say good night, Willum.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Willum.”
Vierdra scoops up her son and leaves the other blonde, Lorcas, standing in the doorway. She has the small guitar in her hand.
“Why did you say that to Willum? You can’t have killed that many men.”
“Killing one person is too many.” He motions to the bed across from him, then stops. “Would it be better if we went downstairs somewhere?”
Lorcas closes the door softly and sits down on the bed opposite him. Her eyes are brown, Creslin realizes. He also realizes that she has not answered his question.
“Would you consider playing a song or something . . . ?”
With words phrased that gently, how can he refuse? He slowly takes the guitar, runs his fingers over the strings, realizing that the instrument must have been the property of a master musician.
He tightens the strings until all of the single notes are the hidden silver that he alone seems able to see.
“Something from your home . . .”
Creslin smiles faintly. He doubts that Lorcas really wants to hear the marching songs of Westwind. What shall he play? For some reason, he recalls a song from the