The Towers Of the Sunset (17 page)

With a smile, Creslin shrugs, concentrates, and reaches forth with both hand and mind.

Thrummm.

The guitarist’s fingers falter as the single tone lingers on past the instant he played it, and his eyes widen as he looks toward the corners where it resonates, where the dimmest of silver glows issues from the fingertips of the silver-haired man sitting alone in the shadows of the table for two.

Creslin releases his capture, ignoring both the faltering of the guitarist and the raggedness of the rest of the ballad.

“What-” whispers the heavy serving girl, watching the glow vanish from his fingertips.

“Just a memory,” he says, as if the words explained anything at all.

The girl swallows, turns, and makes the sign of the one-god believers as she picks up another set of empty mugs from a table of dicers. “Another round, girl. Same as the last.”

Smoke from the burning oak swirls from the hearth, mixing with cold air rushing in from the open doorway.

Creslin sips again from the dark-brown mug, tasting for the first time the edge of autumn buried in the cider, drawing forth that sense of ripening fruit and that hint of something else that he noted with his first sip.

Plop…

Wobbling on the table is a red apple, streaked with green. On one side are both a large dark spot and the dark antennae of a fruit beetle. Creslin’s mug is now less than half full, though he has taken but three sips.

“I think I would have preferred not to know.” He takes another sip of the cider, discovers the taste is unchanged and nods at the understanding that the infested apples become cider.

“Where’d you get an apple this time of year?” asks the clean-shaven young man who has seated himself at the adjoining table. Hard-faced, he wears the white leathers of the wizards’ guards.

So does the woman pulling out the other chair; there is a black circle on the lapel of her white-leather vest. Her eyes glance at Creslin, catch the silver hah“, then rest upon his face. Finally she looks away and gestures.

A small point of fire appears before the face of the serving girl, who turns quickly, sees the white leathers and scurries toward the two guards. “Yes, your honors?”

Creslin takes a deep breath. To leave at this point would call even more attention to himself. He takes a small sip, as much to bring the mug before his face as to drink.

“Cider and cheese, with the good brown bread,” states the woman:

“Same here,” says the man, returning his attention to Creslin. “About the apple.”

Creslin shrugs, bemused, and picks up the apple, extending it to the guard. “It’s a little spoiled.”

The man takes it, then employs his narrow-bladed and white-hiked bronze belt knife to cut away the brown spot, expertly carving the remainder of the fruit into identical crescents. He offers a crescent to the other guard.

Her eyes still scanning the half-dozen occupied tables, she begins chewing, then stops. “Harlaan, where did you get this?”

“From him. What’s wrong?”

“It’s fresh. That’s what’s wrong. ”She turns toward the corner where Creslin sits.

“Fresh? That’s a problem?” mutters the young guard.

“You! What school are you from?” Her flinty gray eyes bore in on Creslin.

“School? I beg your indulgence, lady blade, but I am a stranger here, not a student, though I would learn what I could if I knew how to.”

Her lips tighten. “A pretty statement, especially for a western wizard.” She stands, and her thin sword shimmers white-gold in the dim light. “Let us go, you and I. And Harlaan.”

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.” ‘t

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 can’t defend yourselves against anything but another wizard,” sneers Harlaan.

“Not quite true, Harlaan. Would you like to grow another beard, right from your eyes?”

The young guard swallows.

“Would you just call Gyretis?”

“Could I tell him why?” asks the Black Wizard.

“Unlicensed Black wizardry, able to carry and use col steel, and the sword is a Westwind blade.”

As the Black Wizard studies Creslin, Creslin feels unsee, fingers across his thoughts.

“You’re damned lucky that he’s essentially untrained, Syrienna. There’s enough power there for three Blacks Unlucky for him.”

Creslin frowns in spite of himself. Power? Black power? In him? What are they talking about? Surely his meage ability to channel the winds-or to recreate an apple from cider-is not to be envied or a cause for alarm.

“Where’s Gyretis?”

L “He’s been notified.” The man in black smiles wryly.

Creslin’s eyes feel heavy and he wants to yawn, but his knees shake and he can barely get his hands out to keep himself from toppling to the floor in sheer exhaustion. At the same time, he throws up a mental arm against sleep, but . . . the floor is deep and black.

“ARE YOU SURE he’s the one?” asks the High Wizard.

“How many are there who can bend winds and wield blades?”

“Why can’t you just kill him?”

The questions circle the table of white-clad men like vultures circling a carcass.

“We know that the Tyrant of Sarronnyn has a lifelink to him, assuming this is the same youth. What happens if he dies?”

“So does the lifelink, of course.”

“And?” pursues the skeletal man in pure white.

“That means the Tyrant knows he’s dead. So what?”

“The Tyrant and the
Marshall suspect that he is in
Fairhaven,” responds the High Wizard.

“You worry about two women across the Westhorns?”

“I worry about the only two rulers remaining in Candar with armies worthy of the name. I alsp^rernember what happened to the expeditionary force you encouraged so effectively, Hartor. Besides which, the Tyrant is the cousin, if by consortship, of the Duke of Montgren.”

“Oh…”

“Exactly. If this youth were to become weaker over time and die, of course…”He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be that bad, in any case, but why give either the Marshall or Ryessa another affront when we don’t have to?”

“I’ll ready the cell,” Hartor offers.

A sigh replies. “Don’t you ever think? If his life-signs stay in one place, that’s a sure indication. The other thing is that we really don’t want it known who he is quite yet. Then we can spread a few rumors about the barbarian nature of the western wenches, driving a poor boy to his death. That certainly can’t hurt.”

“But we’re the ones-”

“So, who will know? We’re not exactly constrained by Black-order considerations.” The man in the blinding white smiles his non-smile.

“The Blacks won’t like it, Jenred.”

“They don’t have to know. Even if they did, how could they prove anything?”

“I see. What about the main road camp?”

“That will do splendidly, with one minor addition. He doesn’t have to know who he is.”

“Won’t the White prison wear off?”

“Not for a year or so. And by then…”

The white-clad men around the table nod sagely, except for one, but his blank face is lost in the nods.

THE RED-HAIRED woman staggers to her feet, blotting her forehead with a cloth. “The bastard. Why doesn’t he take care of himself? Why? Damned fever, damned headaches. What did they do to him?”

As her eyes fail to focus, she sinks back into the wooden chair bolted to the deck, her fingers grasping the arms carved into the representation of leaping dolphins. The white scars on her wrists tingle, and a touch of redness suffuses them, almost as if the cold iron still encircled her flesh.

I “Sister…” She chokes back what she might have said, glancing instead at the rack above the narrow bunk, her eyes picking out the white-leather case with the mirror inside. Her left hand lifts itself from the carved chair arm as if independent of the rest of her body, then falls back on the arm of the chair as the deck lurches under her.

The coaster bearing her to the north shores of
Sligo, to Tyrhavven, continues to pitch in the heavy seas, but her stomach remains calm, unlike her thoughts or the fevers that wrack her body.

Both hands grasp the arms of the chair, her fingers tightening as if to lever her slender body erect on the smooth red-oak deck. Then the fingers spasm, and she shudders.

“Sister, you deserve… all the hells of the eastern wizards.” She closes her eyes, as if the words alone have exhausted her, but she remains in the chair, behind those closed lids recalling the mirror and the swirling white that blocks any contact with her lifelink.

“Darkness damn… him and damn… her.” Her breath rasps through chapped lips and a parched throat. “Damn… damn…”

THE SOUND OF hammer upon chisel clangs, off-key, disordered, in the morning shadows that cloak the canyon.

The silver-haired man trudges back from the leading edge of the construction, past the first of the deep, straight clefts that separate one foundation block from another, each block a rock cube more than thirty cubits on a side. As he steps up to the unloading stand, he leans forward to balance the weight of the rocks in the basket upon his back, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the crease-edged pain of the basket’s canvas straps.

Before him stretches the newest canyon of the mountains, a knife-sharp raw gash open to the east. At the base of that gash are the joined stones of a roadbed that strays not a thumb’s width to the left or to the right, a roadbed that runs from
Fairhaven to where he stands, or so he has been told. Behind him, scarcely four hundred cubits distant from the square timbers of the unloading apparatus he approaches, the canyon’s clean-cut walls terminate in a barrier of solid stone. The trees and soil, more than two hundred cubits above, have been removed, and the dust and white ash from that removal drift into the notch below, causing the workers to cough occasionally, and to squint and blink away the ash and grit.

Halfway between the unloading platform and the mountain wall that blocks the road’s progress stand two figures in white: white boots, tunics, and trousers.

With the ease of habit, the silver-haired young man turns and presents his burden, slipping from the straps and standing aside to wait for the return of the empty basket. His eyes skip over the glittering arc that flows from the northern wall of the canyon a kay eastward from his work: a stream that tumbles into the watercourse beside the road, clawing futilely at the massive granite blocks and smooth-fitted stonework that support the road. Some of the mist from the falling water drifts back toward the silver-haired man as the light morning breezes shift.

The fill-master swivels the unloading spout to direct the smaller granite chunks into the space between the two base blocks and above the stone drain. The watercourse beside the new construction remains empty except for scattered puddles from the rain of the afternoon before. “Next!”

Stepping to the other side of the unloading platform, the man who has no name, none that he can presently remember, reclaims his empty basket and trudges back toward the wizards in white.

Tweet! Tweet! A shrill whistle splits the morning shadows, for the sun has not yet climbed high enough to strike the bottom of the canyon.

“Stand back! Stand back, you idiots!” The order- conveyed in a disordered, grumbling growl-tumbles from the fleshy lips of a man in white leathers who wears a sword and a white bronze-plate skullcap. “You! Silver-top! Stand by the stone. Behind the barrier!”

After edging behind the low stone wall that rests on wooden skids, the nameless worker takes his place among a dozen huddled figures.

“Close your eyes! Close your eyes!”

Remembering the pain, the silver-haired one complies. Has there been a time without pain? He feels that once such a time existed.

CRACK! CRACCCKKKK!

A flash brighter than the noonday sun, sharper than the closest of lightnings, flares across the stone face that rims the canyon.

Once-solid rock fifty cubits deep splinters, fractures, separates, and slides into a rough pyramid at the base of the remaining rock wall. Rock dust mushrooms above the shadows and into the morning light, blurring the sharp edges of the canyon walls.

“Head out. Load up,” calls the road soldier.

The two wizards walk slowly, tiredly, back towarchttie golden coach that waits where the smooth-finished paving stones end.

The silver-haired and nameless man squints as the younger wizard passes by, less than an arm’s length away. He cannot grasp the memory, recognizing only that he should know something, and that he does not.

“Load up, you idiots! That means you, silver-top!”

The memory and the moment boil away with the mist and shadows as the sun clears the southeast edge of the canyon rim and glares upon the road-builders. The nameless man blinks and steps toward the pile of granite that must be removed for fill or for reshaping by the stonecutters. Then the wizards in black will come and bond the stones and mortar together. While he has seen the men in black, again he can only remember what he has been told their actions signify. In any case, the stones will be used, and the road will proceed westward toward the sunset.

“Load up!” comes the command once more.

His steps carry him forward toward the loading rack that other prisoners are sliding into place beside the tumbled stones, even before the dust has settled.

“Just the gray stones…”

The words wash over him as he waits in the line of men wearing baskets identical to his.

Clink… clink… Behind him, the stonemasons resume their work, Grafting the flush-fitted gray walls and storm drains that link the base-blocks of the road.

The loading crew begins placing the square stones into the loading bin, and the first porter eases his basket into the rack.

“Next!”

The nameless man racks his basket, waits until it is full, then strains away from the rack and staggers onto the heavy plank walk that leads back to the unloading rack, leaning forward and squinting against the-rising sun.

“Next!”

Heavy leather boots protect his feet against the splinters of the planks and the sharp edges of the rocks, but not against the casual fit and the blisters. The inside of his right boot is damp with blood. Each step sends a twinge up his leg.

“Silver-top!”

He looks up blankly to the road soldier, not halting his progress past the overseer.

“Unload and go to the healer’s tent. Then get back here.” The soldier’s voice bears exasperation. He is not as tall as the nameless man, but he wears a sword and gestures with a heavy white-oak truncheon.

The nameless man can see a white glow tinged with red around the scabbarded sword. That same glow surrounds all of the swords of the road soldiers, swords that cut like the fire they contain.

He stumbles up to the unloading platform, performs the routine, and staggers back along the boards. Instead of turning right, toward the shattered pile of rock heaped like a rough pyramid at the end of the slowly growing canyon, he turns left, toward the canvas tent which bears a white banner emblazoned with a single-lobed green leaf. There he sets the basket down.

The woman in the crisp green blouse and matching green-leather trousers and boots looks at him. “Right foot?”

He nods.

“Sit there.” She points to a short wooden bench. “Take off the boot. Let’s see.” Her voice is matter-of-fact.

He is pleased with the music in her words, submerged as it is beneath the duty, and smiles faintly as he seats himself and removes his right boot. Thin lines of red have splashed away from his heel, from the bloody and yellowed sore there.

The woman shakes her head, talking to herself as if he were not present. “Idiots. Don’t put oversized work boots on bare feet.” Her fingers touch the skin around the wound. He winces in anticipation of pain, but there is none, so gentle are her fingers.

“Hmmm… not too bad.” She takes a white cloth, dips it in an acrid liquid. “This might sting.” The wet cloth touches his foot as she begins to clean away the pus and blood.

“Sssss…” The breath hisses through his lips as liquid fire bathes his heel, but he does not move.

“While you are here, let me check something else.” Her fingers touch his temples, and a faint warmth stirs within his head, then vanishes. She steps back, even before the burning sensation leaves his foot.

From a full two cubits away, the healer looks at him through dark-lashed eyes, shakes her head imperceptibly. “Sit over there. Let it dry.”

He moves to the stool she has indicated.

“Healer?” Another voice intrudes.

They both look up. A road guard stands by the tent, followed by two other prisoners carrying a stretcher.

The silver-haired man knows one of the stretcher-bearers-Redrick-because they share the same bunk wagon.

“Smashed leg,” announces the guard, his voice flat.

“Set him on the table. Gently.”

The nameless man watches as Redrick and the other prisoner ease the injured man onto the long, battered table. The guard watches, along with the two stretcher-bearers, while the healer examines the leg.

“I can splint this, but the master-healer at Borlen will have to handle the bones.”

“Darkness…” mutters the road guard.

“It’s your choice. Two bones are shattered. I can keep him from losing the leg, but it will be nearly half a year before he can get around without help, and he’ll never really be able to use the limb.”

“Fix him up as well as you can. I’ll ask the squad leader. You two-” the guard jabs with the hand not holding the truncheon“-come on and get back to work.” He glares at the nameless man. “How long before this one’s ready?”

“Not long. This time you sent someone before the whole foot was diseased.”

The guard purses his lips, then turns without speaking. Redrick and the other prisoner follow him.

“My leg?” asks the bearded prisoner, an older man with streaks of gray in his straggly beard and remaining hair.

“They’ll send you to Klerris. They don’t like to, but they will.” She rummages through a long trunk as she speaks, finally extracting an apparatus of canvas and wooden braces. “You, silver-head. Give me a hand here.”

“What?” mumbles the older man.

“We’re just splinting the leg temporarily. That’s so the ends of the bones don’t rip up your leg any more than it is when they throw you in the wagon.”

The nameless man stands up and takes the four steps that bring him beside the table. The pain in his bare foot has subsided to a dull throbbing.

“When I tell you…” The healer explains how she wants him to hold the injured man’s leg. “Do you understand?”

He nods.

She takes the apparatus in hand. The prisoner screams but does not move as the healer and the nameless man do what they must. The healer’s hands, never falter.

The silver-haired man clamps^his lips as he does his job, but his hands remain steady. He^knows that he should do something besides what he has been told, but what that should be, he does not remember, if indeed it is an action that he should remember from the past he does not recall.

At the end, the man on the table lies half-comatose, sweating. As the healer sponges away his sweat, her eyes fall upon the nameless man. “You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t know where I belong. Do you?”

She looks away, then shakes her head. “Let’s check your foot.”

Her hands are deft. She places a thin cloth, sticky at the edges, over the sore, which is no longer yellow but merely white beginning to crust. Then she rummages in the trunk under the table.

“Oohhh…” comes a murmur from the table.

The healer straightens and touches the unfortunate’s forehead. “You’ll be all right.” In her other hand, she lifts what appear to be two strips of cloth. She turns to the silver-haired man.

“Wear one of these each day on the injured foot-today, over the pad. Tomorrow, wash the foot and take off the pad. Wear the clean sock. Wash the socks out as well as you can and wear a clean one each day until the foot heals. If it gets worse, come see me as soon as you can. Just tell the guards I told you to.” She holds up her hand. “You won’t work at all if it gets really diseased.”

He takes the socks and sits down on the stool, easing one sock over his injured foot, careful not to move the pad over the sundered blister. Then he reaches for the heavy work boot, looking at the healer. Does she resemble a shadow he should remember? He looks down, uncertain.

She smiles faintly, then turns back to the man on the table.

The nameless man pulls on the boot slowly. The healer does not look at him until after he picks up the empty shoulder basket and heads westward to the pyramid of shattered granite.