The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [61]
Creslin finally takes a swallow from the flask he has been holding. “Thank you. What do I owe you?” He returns the flask.
“Nothing. I’m glad you were here. I’m not from Fairhaven either.” She takes the flask and starts to turn back to the grill, then stops. “Be careful. You’re an outlander carrying cold steel.” Then she sprinkles water across the grill. The coals hiss as she begins to pack up the pastries.
Creslin takes the bench farthest from the body, one where he cannot be seen directly by the clean-up crew—whatever or whoever that might be. He takes a bite of the fowl pie, still warm, although the flaky pastry has become somewhat sodden with juice from the sauce on the meat.
Despite the tangy taste of the pie, Creslin has to force himself to take another bite. As he does, the two girls pass by, not looking in his direction.
“. . . can you imagine . . . as if being a White Guard meant anything . . .”
“. . . late. Father will be . . .”
“. . . let him . . . always mad about something.”
By now Creslin sits in shadows, for the sun has dropped behind the low western hills, yet the small square is not gloomy. The vending woman has finished stowing her supplies in a wooden locker in the cart. Then a cover goes over the grill, and the tailboard comes up.
As he watches, she wheels the cart out of the square and northward along the gentle incline. The other two carts have already left.
Three more slow bites, and he finally finishes the roll. As he stands, so does the old man, who peers at him for a moment as if to ascertain in which direction Creslin intends to walk.
Creslin turns south and back onto the boulevard.
The old man turns north, the direction the vendor has taken.
One by one, the oil-fired street lamps flicker on, and as each one lights, Creslin can sense a brief touch of redness, of flame.
Fairhaven murmurs, like all towns murmur, and his ears, cast to the breezes, catch but the loudest of the murmurs. He has to strain against the encircling mist of White magic.
“. . . not here. My father . . .”
He grins at that.
“. . . the same old story . . . never enough . . .”
“. . . and I told her that it was nothing to me. If he wants to think something . . .”
“. . . thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. Not a bad day . . . a good number of outlanders, and they pay more.”
“. . . a lot of white coats out tonight.”
Down the boulevard, another pair of white tunics on the other side of the divided road stroll slowly uphill.
“What are we looking for?”
“. . . didn’t say. Just said we’d know it if we saw it.”
“Funny orders, if you ask me . . .”
“. . . didn’t ask.”
The silver-haired man drifts to the outside of the boulevard and bends down, as if to adjust his boot. Then, as the two pass abreast, not even looking beyond the low bushes and the rolled grass, he slowly straightens and continues on his way.
Should he turn and leave? But why would they be looking for him? No one knows about the incident at the trader’s camp, at least not one who would have recognized him. And there is no way that either the Marshall or the Tyrant would ever ask anything of the wizards.
Still, he shakes his head. He needs to know more. He continues until the gradual slope of the boulevard levels. With measured steps, he comes to another square, where he finds a shadowed bench. Even as night descends, the slightest glimmer from the oil-fired streetlights is magnified ten times over and white light sparkles from the stones, the red tinge apparently invisible to anyone but himself.
Creslin sits on the bench next to the fountain in the warm evening, listening, trying to sort out the city. On one side of this central square is a long arcade, lined with shops of every variety—cabinetry, cloth, baskets, coopers, silversmiths, goldsmiths—every variety except one. There is no establishment that handles cold iron. Many, but not all, of the shops are closed. A woman’s laughter, chiming like off-key bells, rings from the open café on the far side of the boulevard.
The more he learns, the