The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [6]
“You are the consort-assign?”
“While the Marshall holds Westwind.”
“I fail to see the distinction.”
Creslin shrugs. “Given the Marshall, and given my sister Llyse, there probably isn’t one. But the succession isn’t automatically hereditary. The guard captains can theoretically chose another Marshall.”
“Is that likely?”
“Now? Hardly. I suppose the tradition is a protection in case there should be a weak Marshall. Those who live by the Legend hold to their strength.”
Thrumm. A single note hums from the platform to the side of the high table, where sit three musicians in bright-blue tunics and trousers. Two are men, one a woman. Each cradles a guitar, but the three instruments vary in size and shape.
Creslin can see the faint golden-silver of that single note as it ascends toward the high, dark-timbered ceiling.
“The guitarists from Sligo are supposed to be rather good,” he ventures.
“Yes. Although that is like saying that Werlynn was good.”
“Werlynn?”
“The music-master of Southwind. Did you ever hear him? He spent some time at Westwind, they say.”
“More than one musician has spent time at Westwind. The Marshall is fond of music. I do not recall a man named Werlynn.”
“You might not. He disappeared somewhere in the snows of the Westhorns years ago. But the older folk still mention him. He had silver hair like yours, and not many people do.”
“That is true,” Creslin responds, “and I may have heard him if he had silver hair. His notes were true.”
“True? That’s an odd comment. Some time, perhaps you could explain.”
While her words invite a comment, their tone is perfunctory and vaguely threatening, as if discussing the trueness of notes were a subject better not mentioned at table. Creslin takes the hint gratefully, for to explain would reveal too much, and to lie would hurt even more. Instead he shifts his eyes to the guitarists as they begin to play.
V
AFTER WHAT SEEMS the hundredth look out the open casement windows at the formal gardens below since his breakfast, Creslin snorts. “Enough is enough.”
“Enough what?” asks Galen.
“I’m going out.”
“Creslin! But the Marshall—”
“She didn’t say I had to stay in one room. She said I had to stay out of trouble. Walking in that garden down there isn’t going to get me in trouble. It’s entirely inside the palace.”
“Let me at least get you a guide.”
“I don’t need a guide.”
“Not for that reason. A guide will signify that you’re a visitor.”
“I’m leaving.”
“It will take only a moment.”
“A moment’s about what you’ve got.”
Galen scurries through the connecting door to the Marshall’s suite, returning even before Creslin finishes adjusting the formal sword-belt over the silksheen trousers that slither against his skin.
“Creslin, is the sword—”
Beside Galen is the young herald who had escorted Creslin and the Marshall the evening before.
“I feel undressed without it. Wearing this . . . bordello outfit is bad enough. Besides, it’s not in a battle harness.” Creslin turns toward the boy. “Is there any reason why I can’t walk through the formal garden there?”
“Many of the . . . men of your situation do, your grace.”
“A diplomatic answer, young man. Well, there’s no one there anyway. Lead on.” Creslin ignores the fretful look on Galen’s face and opens the door to the hallway. Clunk. He has not meant to shut the heavy oak door so firmly, but the hinges are well oiled.
For the first dozen steps, neither Creslin nor the herald speak. At last the youth asks, “Is it true that you wear battle leathers, your grace?”
Creslin laughs softly. “I wear leathers, but so does everyone in Westwind. You’d freeze in silks like these. Our summers are colder than your winters.”
“But how do you grow crops?”
“We don’t. We have some mountain-sheep herds for milk, cheese, and meat. We trade for the rest. We pay for it by maintaining the western trade roads clear of bandits, and—”
“—and hiring out to the western powers?” asks the boy. “Are the guards as good as the Tyrant says?”
“Probably,