The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [64]
Creslin stands slowly, his hands empty, his eyebrows drawn. “I would appreciate knowing what offense or crime I may have committed.”
“Definitely an outlander, wouldn’t you say, Harlaan?” Her words are addressed to the guard although her eyes remain on Creslin. “Possibly the one we might be looking for?”
“He speaks the Temple tongue too formally, too well,” agrees the guard, leaving two apple crescents on the table as his white-bronze blade extends toward Creslin.
Creslin remains standing, though he glances down at his pack.
“Step away from the table. Harlaan, get his pack. I thought I felt something odd about you, stranger.”
“Holy wizards . . .” breathes Harlaan as he straightens up with the pack. “Look at that blade.”
The serving girl has retreated through the smoke to the kitchen, and the rest of those in the room pointedly ignore the two White Guards and their captive, just as the bystanders had done earlier on the boulevard.
“What about it?”
“Cold steel, and it’s a Westwind guard blade. You can tell by the length.”
“Be careful with it—the Westwind guards are women. He’s a man; he probably stole his way across the mountains.”
Creslin smiles sadly.
Harlaan shakes his head. “You don’t steal their blades. It’s either his or he was good enough to take it from a guard.”
Creslin’s eyebrows knit and unknit, but he says nothing, suspecting that any answer will get him in deeper trouble.
“Interesting,” snaps the woman. “Let’s go.”
“Would you mind if I left a copper for the serving girl?”
“Be our guest.”
Creslin takes a single coin from his purse and sets it on the battered wood. “Where to?”
“Out the door and turn uphill. I wouldn’t try to run, not unless you want to have your guts burned out.”
Creslin has heard of the White Guards, who mix weapons and magic, but he regrets that his first encounter with them has turned out the way it has. And all because he was wondering about the taste of the cider. He purses his lips and steps through the heavy wooden door, emerging into the misty twilight, where a fine and cold spring rain begins to filter down his neck. The earlier warmth of the day has vanished. While the air seems near summerlike to him— which is the reason his parka is in his pack—the dampness of the rain is annoying. Yet, with a wizard bearing a blade at his back, he dare not channel the wind and moisture away from himself.
“Uphill, stranger.”
Absently, as he follows the command, Creslin notes that the smoke from the tavern has emerged with them. He also notes that the man is close to a head taller than he is.
“Do you really think he can use that blade?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t tell you why,” answers Harlaan. “I don’t think I’d want to be around if he got his hands on it, either.”
Creslin chuckles.
“Think that’s funny?”
“No. It’s just that you have assumed I am dangerous, deadly with a weapon, and some sort of criminal, and all I have done is to sip cider in a tavern.”
Neither guard replies, but Creslin can sense an increased tension in the pair and wonders if he should have said nothing. Still, silence would have presumed guilt. .
As the light from the western sky decreases, the pale, white stones of the street seem to reflect a dim light from somewhere, enough that the oil lamps hung by each doorway seem almost unnecessary.
The hill is not long, nor is the square building seated at the crest large.
“In here.”
A quick look to the right and Creslin can see a line of white that seems to be the main highway through which he had entered Fairhaven so recently.
“Syrienna? A tavern roisterer so early?” A thin man in black leathers sits behind a flat table. His lips curl away from even white teeth as he speaks, making him seem old, though Creslin doubts that he is much older than the woman.
“Call Gyretis.”
“My!”
“Call Gyretis, or—”
“Are you threatening me, dear lady?”
“No. But I might give this fellow his sword and do nothing at all.”
“That would pose a problem.”
“You Black types