The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [97]
“What about the two others? And Bortren?”
“He killed them, with his sword. The wizard—our wizard, the one you called Bortren—he threw fire at the Storm Wizard, but it never even came close.”
The thin wizard frowns. “Real fire?”
“I could feel the heat.”
“Why did you . . . depart?”
“Because I was scared, Ser Wizard. Anything that kills five men and a wizard . . . I can’t stop it.”
“What happened after that?”
“The whole valley filled with fog. Then there was ice rain. They said it was there days later. I didn’t stay.”
“Well, you’re honest. You’ve at least seen this . . . Storm Wizard. Tell Hartor you’re going with the ship.”
“Hartor, ser?”
“The big wizard who called you here. You’ll be on the ship that sinks the Duke’s schooner. You’ll take a ship from Lydiar. That way we solve two problems.”
“Yes, ser.” The guard’s voice is flat, resigned.
The thin man in white ignores the tone.
LX
THE THREE SPIDLARIAN mercenaries rein in at the seawall. Creslin follows their example, as does Megaera. Up the muddy road that leads to the rolling hills and the site of the attack by the Certan light horse, there are no horsemen, but there will be.
The cold rain beats around them, but not upon them. While the Spidlarians mumble, they do not protest the protection Creslin has afforded them. His senses expand to the cold sea breeze that flows in off the whitecaps beyond the too-short breakwater; it is almost a winter wind, carrying moisture barely warm enough to be rain and not ice.
Megaera shivers under a thin cloak, and her face is pale as she follows Creslin’s eyes toward the pier.
Tyrhavven is a poor excuse for a harbor, large enough for only a few coasters and an occasional Hamorian trader, and nearly useless in the winters. While ice chokes the Spidlarian ports, Tyrhavven is south of the ice line, not far enough south for clear water, yet far enough that the ice floes and bergs could be avoided—if not for the combination of winds, tides, and waves.
Poor harbor or not, it is Montgren’s sole outlet to the sea, and that only because of the treaty negotiated through the Tyrant of Sarronnyn.
Of the two ships moored at the pier, one is a sloop flying the Montgren banner, smaller than a coaster, her sails furled. The other is a two-masted war schooner bearing a white triangle within a black circle. A pair of guards in white-enameled copper breastplates flanks the gangway.
“Wonderful.” Creslin’s hand strays toward the sword in his shoulder harness, then drops. “Now what?”
“They won’t do a thing here,” observes Megaera.
“We just walk on board?”
“Why not?” She laughs. “It’s better than sitting here and freezing.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Of course it’s not. Once we’re on board, they’ll send at least one assassin. If we clear the harbor, they’ll follow, and when we’re out of sight of witnesses, our ship will catch fire and sink. That’s why cousin dear insisted on sending a messenger separately, and slightly later.”
“If we don’t make it, almost no one will know. Is that it?”
Megaera nods.
“We will make it.”
“There are at least twenty White warriors on the ship, and another ship waits somewhere. They’re expecting us.”
“You took that—” he points to the Montgren sloop “—from Sarronnyn?”
“No. I bounced here on a Suthyan coaster. It was bigger, heavier, and slower. The Duke didn’t want to risk one of his two ships. And of course sister dear did not press him.”
“Let’s go and visit.”
Megaera shrugs. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Do you have a better one?”
“After the way you treated the wizard’s road guards and the Certan light-horse squad?”
“What was I supposed to do? The last time I visited Fairhaven wasn’t especially healthful for me.”
“You think it was much better for me?”
“You weren’t out of your mind and hauling rocks with an infected foot and everyone hoping you’d die.”
“No. I was just out of my mind, feeling every agony and wishing you’d get it over with.”
“Ahem . . .” interrupts the thin-faced mercenary, lifting a document case bearing their warrants