The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [52]
Creslin nods. “I appreciate the thought.” Derrild cannot afford him for more than one reason, one being the blond girl in the next room. He shifts the pack and puts it over both shoulders, the sword harness where he can still reach the hilt. “You think Gerhard is the best bet?”
“Gerhard’s the only one who travels regularly to Fairhaven, the only one who makes money at it. Demons know how, so watch your step. But it’s a sight faster than walking, if he’ll take you on. Or cheaper than paying wagon rates.” Derrild shrugs. “Take care, young fellow.” He eases toward the doorway.
Creslin takes the hint and follows.
“Father?” Lorcas steps down the stairs from the kitchen. “Is Creslin leaving now?”
“Yes,” Creslin answers, to spare Derrild the admission. “It’s time to go.” His eyes rest on her as he remembers how soft and warm she had felt.
“Then I need to say good-bye.” She steps around her father and up to Creslin, hugs him and kisses him, full on the lips and hard enough that Creslin starts to kiss her back before he remembers that her father is standing there.
Creslin is still blinking when she lets go of him.
“Good-bye . . .” Her voice is soft, telling him she knows that any platitudes about seeing each other again would be false.
“Good-bye.” His throat is dry, and his throat catches. He does not move until she steps back toward the staircase. “Good-bye,” he repeats.
She darts up the stairs.
“Well, best you be going.”
Creslin nods mutely and almost stumbles out the doorway onto the street.
“Try Gerhard.”
“I will.”
Click . . .
The door shuts before he is two paces away. He looks toward the house but can see no faces in the windows.
“Go see Gerhard,” Derrild has suggested, and having no better ideas himself, Creslin starts down the street; as good as the trader has been, he knows that his welcome will become thin indeed should he attempt to remain.
Hylin has not returned, and there is no point in leaving a note, since Hylin could not read it in any case.
Although his breakfast was as hearty as his dinner, although the sky is a clear blue, and although Lorcas has bestowed upon him a good-bye kiss that was not the most chaste of farewells—his steps lag, and when he whistles, the notes are coppered silver notes that do not quite materialize, notes that tremble upon the morning. At the end of the first block, he turns left, heading downhill, recalling what Derrild had not said about Gerhard.
Down in the yards next to the winding stream that flows into the river, he finds Gerhard. Unlike Derrild, who is big, Gerhard is fat, bulging out over his wide, brown-leather belt.
“Much as I would like the added protection, I cannot pay for another guard.” Gerhard shrugs.
Creslin knows that the man is both lying and telling the truth, but he cannot tell which half is true. “Fine. I need to get to Fairhaven. You need another guard. You pay a token wage—say, a copper a day—and I’ll go with you.”
“That’s still too much. You have no horse, and you probably eat like one. You thin men are all alike, all appetite.”
Creslin shrugs, begins to turn away.
“All right. Take the dun mare at the end. You’ll have to put the bags on the main wagon. But you don’t get paid if you break anything.”
Creslin nods. He fully expects Gerhard to find some way not to pay him, but his main consideration is to get to Fairhaven, to see the eastern wizards, and to observe quietly. There may be a place for him there. Cost is not nearly the consideration it once was, not with the nearly dozen golds he found in the dead bandit’s purse. Before he had left Derrild’s, he had slipped two of the coins into Hylin’s pack, hoping they would help the thin man.
His thoughts turn back to Fairhaven. Can he discover what he is there? Or what his destiny might be? Or is he still just blindly running from Westwind? He shakes his head. If not Fairhaven, then where can he turn? Certainly not back to Sarronnyn, but the Duke of Montgren might welcome any help.
As he unstraps the extra packs from the dun mare, another man approaches. He is heavy like Gerhard, and sloppy