The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [57]
Is it wise to go to Fairhaven?
But where else can he discover who and what he is?
XXXI
QUICK STRIDES HAVE taken Creslin more than three kays from the trader’s grounds and to another flat, if rutted, road. Glancing back over his shoulder, he looks for the faint haze that has hovered over the traders’ grounds, a natural haze of not exactly natural moisture and smoke from the many cook fires in too small an area. Instead, a thundercloud continues to mushroom into the sky, growing darker underneath, with white cotton plumes on the top reaching toward the sun.
A thunderstorm out of a clear sky? From a single call to the high winds?
The road he walks is clearly a farm road, with wheel ruts, heavy hoofprints, and horse droppings. He may find a farm wagon headed into Fairhaven. If not, his legs will eventually bring him there.
After another kay, Creslin looks back toward the clouds that have spread well beyond the traders’ grounds and cast a shadow across the road he walks. On top of the rolling hills behind him, he sees a farm wagon, with two figures on the wagon seat. He keeps walking.
He can feel the wagon’s ponderous approach, pulled by a draft horse a third again as big as the black stallion he had taken from the dead bandit. A spare man, his black hair shot with white, holds the reins. A thin-faced woman, her hair still pure black, sits beside him.
“Looking for a ride, young fellow?”
“I would not turn one down, ser.”
“Then don’t. Climb aboard, if you can avoid the baskets.”
Creslin looks over the sideboards until he sees a narrow area free from baskets of what appear to be potatoes and assorted greens. Then he vaults in, teetering on the jolting boards before catching his balance and easing down on the dust that has sifted from the produce bushels.
“You some sort of acrobat?” asks the farmer.
“No. I just couldn’t think of any other way to do it.”
“You are headed for Fairhaven?” asks the woman.
Creslin nods.
“Not much for soldiers, the wizards aren’t,” adds the man.
“That’s what I’ve heard. I can use a blade, but I’m not really a soldier.” Creslin’s stomach agrees with the statement, and that agreement sends a chill down his spine. If he is not a soldier, what is he?
“Hope you’re not a wizard, either,” adds the man. “They don’t care much for wizards, excepting their own, of course.”
“They don’t sound terribly friendly,” observes Creslin. “The traders say that they don’t like traders. You tell me they don’t like soldiers and wizards. Who do they like?”
“It’s not that bad,” laughs the farmer. “They like merchants and children and farmers, and people who live their lives without messing into other people’s ways.”
Creslin nods, listening.
“Fairhaven’s a good city. You can walk the streets day or night and feel safe. You can find some place to eat day or night, and the money and the people are honest. How many places can you say that about?”
“Not many,” Creslin admits. “Not many.”
In time, they reach another road, wider, smoother, and of stone, heading south along a wide ridge. Overhead, the thunderclouds have continued to mass, cutting off all but scattered sunlight.
“This leads straight into the city?”
“Sure enough does, young fellow. Sure enough does. What are you planning to do there?”
Creslin shrugs. “Look around, watch, have a meal, find a place to sleep.”
“Hope you have a few coins.”
“Some.”
“The wizards are death on theft. First time, you’re on the road crew. Second time, you’re dead.”
“The road crew?”
“The great east-west highway. Someday, they say, that highway will cross all of Candar.” The farmer flicks the reins.
“Be after our time,” adds the woman. Her voice is almost as deep and husky as the man’s.
“I don’t know, Marran. I can recall when it wasn’t barely into Certis. Now they tell me that they’re near as to halfway through the Easthorns.
Creslin listens, asking a question or two, as the wagon creeks along the stone highway.
A messenger, dressed in white and with a red slash across his tunic, gallops past, and horses and carts continue to pass in the other direction.