"Alexander, Lloyd - Westmark 02 - The Kestrel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Alexander Lloyd)

Mickle grinned at him. "I'll go alone." While the count sputtered a protest, she added, "Naturally, then, you couldn't expect to be paid."

"Where your safety is concerned, mere gold cannot influence me in the slightest. It's a matter of reasonable judgment, of conscience." The count puffed out his cheeks and passed a hand over his brow. "Ah-there's no question. You'd be better off with us. Very welt, I agree. It's my patriotic duty."

Las Bombas having yielded to conscience and duty, Mickle instructed him to make everything ready for their departure. To speed him on his way and protect him from a sudden attack of afterthoughts, she wrote out a treasury draft which she put into the reliable hands of Musket, telling the dwarf to have the coach waiting that night in an alley beyond the palace.

So it happened that Queen Mickle, as the Juliana bells rang midnight, urgently needed a supply of dirt.

Until half a year ago, Mickle had spent most of her life as a street urchin- She was able, thus, to slip into that role again with great ease and even greater enjoyment: It was a welcome relief.

Though she had also been an eager student of housebreaking, apprenticed to one of the finest burglars in Westmark, she understood that leaving the Juliana by stealth would present a few unique difficulties for the ruler. Guards of honor lined the corridors, sentries were posted throughout the courtyard and at the gates. The disguise of urchin would be essential in rejoining Las Bombas. The queen of Westmark, Mickle realized, had much power and little freedom.

She ripped and frayed a pair of breeches and a shirt until they looked properly disreputable. She could not say as much for herself. She had tied back her hair and scuffed her boots; but she needed grime, and the apartments were disgustingly dean. Mickle tried the fireplace. The day had been mild, no fire had been lit, and all traces of ash had been swept away. Reaching up the chimney, she finally scraped off an ample amount of soot, which she streaked over her face and hands and rubbed into her clothing.

Satisfied with her new appearance, Mickle opened the casement and stepped out onto the ledge. She swung nimbly upward and clambered to the rooftop, stopping Just short of the peak. From there, flattened against the roof, she pressed along silent as a shadow in the direction of the palace wall until she reached a comer that would let her descend without having to cross too large an expanse of open courtyard.

A sentry paced below. Mickle slid easily down the nearest rainspout, stopping a short distance above the ground. She had planned to go the rest of the way as soon as the man's back was turned. He was infuriatingly slow. Instead of continuing his patrol, he stopped, leaned his musket against the side of the building, and yawned leisurely, giving every sign of lingering some while.

Silently berating him for a lazy lout, she decided to wait no longer. Las Bombas had ranked her among the best mimics and ventriloquists he had known. Relying on those gifts, Mickle took a deep breath.

An instant later, seemingly from around the comer nearest the sentry post, came a furious meowing and spitting, followed by barks, growls, and yelps- The guardsman seized his musket and ran to settle the most ferocious cat-and-dog fight he had ever heard.

Mickle grinned with satisfaction. She had lost none of her skill. She dropped to the flagstones and raced across the courtyard. Legs pumping, she struck the wall at full tilt. Her speed and momentum carried her halfway up. Her fingers caught at the slightest handholds in the cracks and crevices. Gaining the top, she swung over without breaking stride and dropped lightly to the street.

She crouched a moment in the darkness. Her mimicry had roused the kennels. From the palace grounds rose the baying of every hound in the royal pack, and the shouts of their bewildered keepers.

Mickle vanished into the shadows.

The ram was a magnificent specimen, with horns thick as a man's forearm curling above the shaggy brow. Deep-chested, coated with long white fleece, it lay on its side against an outcropping of rocks. It was not quite dead.

Three men in hunting costume, followed by their gun loaders and the local foresters, walked briskly over the stony ground. Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the blue white peaks of the Domitians, the high range at the eastern border of Westmark. The hunters were some leagues beyond this frontier, well within the neighboring kingdom of Regia.

"Bravo, General!" Duke Conrad of Regia clapped his hands. He was a stocky man with ruddy cheeks. "Excellent shot! They are elusive beasts, one rarely sees them. A favorable omen for your visit. I congratulate you."

"Your Highness promised good hunting." General Erzcour tended toward fleshiness. His large, heavy face and prominent cheekbones made his eyes appear especially bright and sharp. He had the habit of slightly pursing his lips, which made him look as if he were about to taste something pleasant. "We have not been disappointed."

"Certainly not in the matter of Regian game." The third huntsman. Baron Montmollin, was the tallest of the party. Although the eldest, he showed little trace of age in his finely drawn features- Hunting, for the most part, bored him; he strode along with his companions, an expression of polite indulgence on his face.

"Nor shall you be disappointed in anything else, I assure you," said" Conrad. "We are largely in agreement already; the small matters can be settled quickly and happily."

They halted a few paces from the ram. It was watching them. The animal struggled to lift its head and make a thrust with its horns.

Duke Conrad turned to Erzcour. "The locals call these creatures rock rams. The more proper term is Domitian mouton. Is this your first? Splendid' You must indulge us. General, by observing one of our Regian customs."

He gestured to the chief forester. Drawing his hunting knife, the man walked up to the ram and cut its throat. Duke Conrad knelt and dipped his fingertips.

"Allow me. General- It is a very old custom. These mountain fellows would be much put out if it were not observed." He touched Erzcour's forehead and cheeks, leaving imprints like scarlet flowers.

"Now, Erzcour," said Baron Montmollin, "you look quite the savage."