The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [76]
“Because you have no horse, no money . . .”
Why is he crossing the plains, heading eastward? Why is he traveling back in the general direction of the wizards, who clearly want him either dead or mindless?
“Because it feels right?” He talks to himself since there is no one else with whom he can talk. “Risking your neck feels right?”
The winds do not lead him to the White Wizards, but along the faintest of trails, too faint to be White or Black, a trail that partakes of both.
He remembers to shuffle as another wagon lurches toward him, and he holds out a supplicating hand. A copper bounces in his direction, but the man and woman on the wagon do not look at him. Creslin recovers the coin and tucks it away. He straightens and walks more steadily once the road is clear.
XLIV
“No . . .” A DARK-HAIRED woman staggers out through the side door but reaches only the second step before she is grasped from behind. Her already-ripped blouse gives way, revealing ample breasts and a bruised shoulder.
“You’ll not spill good wine again!” The thin man with a scar across his cheek seizes the heavyset girl’s bare shoulder and elbow, levering her toward the slop-filled gutter.
“I won’t. I’ll be careful. Please . . .”
Two bravos smirk as they watch the innkeeper. A capped maid standing on the doorstep across the road looks away and scurries inside.
“No! No!”
Clip . . . clippedy . . .
The innkeeper pauses as the horse draws near, then lifts his hand again at the serving girl.
The redheaded woman on the horse reins up. The innkeeper does not look at her, but his hand remains aloft.
“Please, mistress, save me . . .”
“Go ahead and save her,” snaps the innkeeper. “She’s a worthless slut. Throwing wine on paying customers. Good Suthyan wine at that.”
The serving girl straightens. “They wanted more than wine . . .”
Two other mounts, carrying a pair of Spidlarian mercenaries, rein up, maintaining a good ten-cubits’ distance from the mounted woman.
“Why should I save you?” The redhead’s voice is cool, almost deep.
The serving girl sways. “If your grace . . .” She shakes her head and looks down. Her eyes are red.
“So you will not beg.” The redhead’s voice remains distant.
“She’s like that. Thinks she’s above everyone,” ventures the thin man. He does not release his hold on the girl’s bruised shoulder.
“Why? Because she doesn’t like being manhandled?” The redhead’s voice sharpens.
“Customers expect friendly service.”
The woman’s eyes take in the dark bruises and the welt on the back of the uncovered shoulder, then move to the innkeeper. “And you expect her to provide very friendly service?”
“Business is business,” responds the innkeeper, but his voice is cautious. “Besides, she was fine when she started.”
The serving girl holds her head erect, looking at neither innkeeper nor horsewoman, but at the silent mercenaries in blue. Tears seep from her eyes; she makes no move, even with her free right hand, to blot or wipe them away.
“Let her go.” The redhead’s voice is level.
“Who will pay her indenture?” whines the innkeeper.
“That wasn’t—” The dark-haired girl breaks off her outburst as the redhead’s eyes focus on her.
“I don’t believe that the Duke’s laws permit the indenture of children for debts of the parents.”
The innkeeper opens his mouth, then closes it.
“Even if the law is not always observed,” continues the horsewoman. She reaches toward her belt and extracts a coin. “Here.”
The innkeeper releases his captive to catch the spinning gold. “But—”
“It’s more than you deserve.”
The innkeeper looks at the hard-faced woman on the horse, then at the two bored mercenaries.
“Don’t even think about it,” warns the woman. “Cousin dear will have your head.”
“Cousin . . .” The innkeeper looks startled.
“Korweil. The Duke.”
The thin man pales as his eyes flicker from the redhead to the mercenaries. The girl takes a step from him. She uses her freed hand to draw the ripped blouse over her shoulder and partly revealed left breast, but licks her lips nervously.
“Take her then, and be done with it.