Viewpoints Critical by L. E. Modesitt Jr

Author:L. E. Modesitt Jr. [Modesitt, L. E. Jr.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

V

That evening, just before sunset, Vynhal saddled another spare mount, a mare, and rode into Iron Stem. He left the mare at what passed for a stable adjoining the Iron Beaker—the local tavern Murch had recommended. The public room was less than half-full, not surprisingly, for a weeknight. Novdi nights would be another story, but he hoped he wouldn’t be spending many Novdis in Iron Stem.Since no one approached him when he stepped into the room, lit only dimly by three oil lamps spaced along the outer wall, he took a small square table beside the unlit hearth, where he could see most of the tables. He turned the table slightly, so that he could sit on the stool and rest his back against the rough plaster of the wall.

A golden-haired but heavyset server walked up and looked down. “I’m Larmisa. What’ll you have, Majer?”

“What tastes good that won’t rot my guts?”

“Gold lager or the Fyansi—red wine from Casula. Local. Not too sweet.”

“The lager.” “Be three.”

Vynhal held up the three coppers. “Right back, Majer.”

Vynhal watched her sway her way between the battered tables. For all her size, she was graceful. Not his type, but grace appealed to him. Striking women who walked like yearling fillies didn’t.

One of the other serving girls leaned toward. “Who’s the officer …”

“… Aldya says he’s the one came in on the sandox coach the other day …”

In the far corner, around a circular table, sat four Cadmian rankers. One kept glancing at Vynhal. The Tech captain ignored him, but listened. “… him, all right…”

“… already lost one man … say a soarer got him …” “… won’t catch me out north …”

The golden-haired server returned and set a heavy glass beaker on the table with a thump. “There you be, Majer.”

Vynhal grinned and handed her four coppers. “Thanks for the promotion.”

“Any day, Majer.” Her smile was amused—but warm. Then she turned, heading toward a balding man and a woman unlikely to be the man’s wife on the far side of the hearth.

Vynhal shifted his attention to the two older men, crafters by their garb, who were less than a yard away, to his right.

“Yurkab … where Dilsant get the oak? He charges less for the table than the wood would cost me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Not by much. How can he do it?”

“Look at the seal, closely.” “You’re telling me that—”

“I’m telling you nothing, except to look. Besides, no one in Wesrigg would look. He could not do such in Dekhron,” added the white-haired crafter.

“They say—”

“They say? Who says?” The white-haired crafter rose. “We should go. Now.”

“But…”

“We should go.” The elder of the two grasped the other’s jacket, if briefly.

The brown-haired indigen crafter rose slowly, until his eyes crossed those of Vynhal. Then the younger crafter turned quickly and followed the older man.

Vynhal strained to catch their last words, even as he took a sip from the beaker. The lager was cool, and drinkable, if barely.

“… he just might tell someone … take care of Dilsant…”

If he understood more of what the two had been talking about, fully, Vynhal might have.

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