The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [60]
“. . . believe ill of a cadet in the White Guard? . . . must be joking.”
“Do you have any lamb pies?”
“They cost three.”
“Lamb and fowl, then.”
“And you, ser?” the woman asks the man directly before Creslin.
“Two fowls.” The man steps partly aside.
“What about you, silver-hair?” The woman is perhaps as old as Aemris, but she has a friendly smile, and her figure cannot be concealed entirely by the baggy brown tunic.
“A fowl pie.” Creslin extends the coppers.
“Oh, Certan coins.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Hardly. We just don’t see them that often.” She smiles again, then turns and plucks two more slabs of meat from the grill, deftly rolling them in the flat pastries she pulls off a stack on a platter beside the small grill. She presents them to the girls. “Here you are, one fowl, one lamb.”
The two girls wander toward one of the stone benches, not looking back.
“. . . Father will be furious. Late . . .”
“Let him . . .”
Beyond the bench where the girls have settled, three bearded men, wearing identical green-and-red surcoats and holding flasks, have stopped at the edge of the open space that is too small for either a park or a square, and they stand on the grass behind the benches.
. . . thirteenth day, they said that he was dead, but up he rose and bashed the captain’s head . . . Ohhhh . . . wild was the sailor, wild was the sea, and wilder still the girl they called Maree . . .
This is the first music that Creslin has heard in the entire day he has been in Fairhaven. He looks behind him, but he is the last one in line, at least for the moment. No one stands around the two other carts, and he cannot see what they might be serving.
“Here are your two fowls.”
The other man takes the two meat rolls and waddles toward the bench to the right of the one taken by the girls. At one end sits an older man, nearly bald, dressed in drab olive, walking stick in hand. His eyes are fixed on a pair of brown pigeons that scurry under the benches for crumbs.
“Silver-hair . . .”
Creslin jerks his eyes back to the vendor “I’m sorry . . .” He takes the chicken in the roll, warm to his hands.
“Are you an outlander?”
“It shows that much?” He doesn’t have to force the laugh.
“What do you think of Fairhaven?”
“It seems to merit the name. A very clean city, and the people seem happy.”
Behind them, the song grows louder, and more off-key.
. . . he blew so hard the sails came down, But he rose with the prefect’s crown . . . Ohhhh . . . wild was the sailor, wild was the sea, and wilder still the girl they called Maree . . .
Threeppp . . .
Creslin winces at the piercing nature of the whistle. “What’s that?”
“Wizards’ guards. You’d better stay right here for a little bit. All right?” She hands him a small flask. “Have a drink.”
THHHREEEPPP . . .
“Might I ask why?” Creslin looks around, then notices that no one else is paying attention, that the girls look only at each other and that the old man stares at the ground. He looks back at the vendor.
Her smiled is strained. “Singing . . .” Her voice is so low that he can barely hear it.
. . . wild was the sailor, wild was the sea, and wilder still the girl they called Maree . . .
Despite the whistle, the revelers continue to sing, waving their arms in a rough semblance of rhythm.
THHHHREEEEPPPP . . .
“That’s enough now.” The harsh voice jolts Creslin, but he follows the example of the vendor and the girls and does not look over at the guards whom he knows have surrounded the three men. “You three know better. Sure, it’s the road camp for you.”
“Frig you, White boy!”
Thud . . .
“Come along, you two. Lerrol, call the waste crew.”
Creslin swallows, catching the vendor’s dark brown eyes with his, questioning.
“The lamb pies are three,” she says cheerfully, but there is a trembling edge to her tone.
“Come along . . .”
The vendor exhales slowly as the footsteps of the guards and the former revelers fade away.
No one looks at the body lying on the ground behind the benches.
“Drunkenness?” Creslin asks hoarsely.
She shakes her head. “Public singing.