The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [98]
Creslin looks back through the rain toward the hills. There is still no sign of the eventual pursuit. He gestures toward the document case. “Once you’ve delivered that and we’re assured passage, your job is done.”
“The lady is . . . our charge.”
Creslin turns to Megaera. “Then let them go. They’re your guards.”
“Me? A mere woman? Compared to the great Storm Wizard?”
“You’re the sub-Tyrant,” Creslin reminds her.
A cough breaks the silence.
“Lady?”
“Go.” Megaera’s sigh has an edge to it.
Creslin ponders what he did wrong . . . again.
“Everything,” she replies.
“Let’s go talk to the captain.”
“In a moment. Let the man do his work.” Megaera dismounts and ties the horse to the railing. She glances up at Creslin, still on the chestnut he has ridden nearly three hundred kays over the past eight-day. Then she takes a comb and begins to repair the wind damage to her hair.
“What do we do with the horses?” Creslin slips off his mount, his eyes flicking to the rain-swept pier, where the mercenary has begun to board the sloop.
“They come. It won’t be comfortable for them, but cousin has a set of stalls on the ship. On every trip, a pair is sent. He had hoped in time, to build up a full cavalry troop on Montgren.” She laughs harshly. “It is rather difficult when you have only two small ships.” The comb disappears.
“So why did he agree to naming us regents?”
“Why not? If we’re powerful enough to survive and to hold Recluce, he couldn’t stop us. And he needs the support of Sarronnyn.” A ragged smile crosses her lips. “And he knows we’re strong enough to cause the wizards more than a little trouble. It might cost him one ship. Already, he’s doing well. How many troops and wizards have you destroyed?” She pauses. “For a Black Wizard, you’re awfully creative at getting around the chaos limits.”
“Chaos limits?”
“If you want to stay a Black, you can’t use fire or anything else that breaks things apart. That’s calling on chaos.”
“Can’t a great wizard do both?”
“Doing both calls for a Gray Wizard—part White, part Black. They say there have been only one or two Gray Wizards ever. And not in years. One of the books I smuggled past sister dear said that trying to handle both order and chaos is the most dangerous of all because the guidelines change from situation to situation.” She looks toward the pier. “We need to walk the horses down there.”
Creslin follows her lead, his eyes taking in the mercenary and the man in green and gold standing on the deck and gesturing toward the Spidlarian. The captain’s gestures are hardly encouraging.
The Spidlarian tenders the dispatch case, points toward Creslin and Megaera and bows, backing away politely.
The pier is short, and they arrive by the unguarded gangway as the mercenary steps back onto the pier.
“Our charge is done, ser, lady.” He bows again.
Creslin returns the bow, then hands the man a gold. “I wish it could be more, but—”
With a lopsided smile, the mercenary takes the coin. “You’ve gotten us through, ser, when few could have. My life is worth a bit more than the gold, but I appreciate the thoughtfulness. Have a good voyage.” He bows again, then strides back down the pier toward the horse being held by one of the other two Spidlarians.
“Synder!”
Creslin ignores the captain’s bellow and looks at Megaera. “What about the horses?”
As he speaks, a youngster scuttles to the top of the gangway.
“Synder! Get the horses!”
“Yes, Captain.”
The captain looks at the two on the pier. Creslin smiles, sensing the man’s discomfort. “Let’s go.” Megaera shrugs but follows him up the unrailed gangplank.
“Name’s Freigr. I’m the captain of the Griffin, subject to the Duke’s orders, of course.” The clean-shaven captain wears a green-and-gold surcoat, and flint-gray eyes inspect his passengers.
“Creslin, and this is Megaera, the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.”
“You claim no title, ser?” asks the captain with a half-smile.
“He’s the consort of Westwind,” explains Megaera, “but he claims that doesn’t count as a title.”
The captain nods. “According to this—” he raises the