"Kerr, Katharine - Westlands 04 - A Time Of Justice v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

'Ye gods! Do you mean we're drinking in a —'
'Shush, you dolt!'
'My apologies, but why are we -'
'Not so loud! What other tavern in Caenmetyn is going to serve a pair of silver daggers? It's a fancy sort of town, my love.'
Rhodry studied the crowd and scowled. Even in a black mood, when Rhodry was young (and he was barely one and twenty that year) his elven blood was obvious to those who knew how to look; his face, handsome all through his life, was so finely drawn in those days with a full mouth and deep-set eyes, that it would have seemed girlish if it weren't for the nicks and scars from old fighting.
'Which way shall we ride tomorrow?' he said at last. 'I've got to find a hire soon.'
‘True enough, because we're blasted low on coin. You should be able to find a caravan leaving here, though.'
'Ah by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell! I'd rather find some lord with a feud going and ride a war. I'm as sick as I can be of playing nursemaid to stinking merchants and their stinking mules! I'm a warrior born and bred, not a wretched horseherd!'
'How can you be sick of it? You've only ever guarded one caravan in your life.'
When he scowled again, she let the subject drop.
Oddly enough, about an hour later someone offered Rhodry a very different type of hire. Jill was keeping a watch on the door when she saw a man slip into the tavern room. All muffled in a grey cloak, with the hood up against the chill of a spring night, he was stout and on the tallish side. When he approached the table, the hood slipped, giving Jill a glimpse of blue eyes and a face handsome in a weak sort of way.
*I heard there was a silver dagger in town.' He spoke with a rolling Cerrmor accent. 'I might have a hire for you, lad.'
'Indeed?' Rhodry gestured at the bench on the opposite side of the table. 'Sit down, good sir.'
He took the seat, then studied them both for a moment, his eyes flicking to Jill as if her standing while he sat made him nervous. Since he was wearing striped brigga and an expensive linen shirt under the cloak, she figured he might be a prosperous craftsman, perhaps a man who made incense for the temples, judging by the scent that lingered around him. All at once, Jill's grey gnome popped into manifestation on the table. He had his skinny arms crossed over his narrow chest, and his long-nosed face was set in a disapproving glare for the stranger, who of course saw nothing. He leaned forward in a waff of Bardek cinnamon.
'I have an enemy, you see,' he whispered. 'He's insulted me, mocked me, dared me to stop him, and he knows blasted well that I've got no skill with a blade. I'll pay very high for proof of his death.'
'Oh indeed?' Rhodry's dark blue eyes flashed with rage. 'I'm no paid murderer. If you want to challenge him to an honour duel and formally choose me for your champion, I might take you up on it, but only if this fellow can fight and fight well.'
Biting his lip hard, the stranger glanced round. The gnome stuck out its tongue at him, then disappeared.
'An honour duel's impossible. He ... uh ... well won't respond to my challenge.'
‘Then I'm not your man.'
'Ah, but they always say that silver daggers have their price. Two gold pieces.'
Jill nearly choked on her ale. Two gold pieces would buy a prosperous farm and its livestock as well.
'I wouldn't do it for a thousand,' Rhodry snapped. 'But at that price, doubtless you'll find someone else to do your murdering for you.'
The fellow rose and dashed for the door, as if the dolt had just realized that he'd said too much to a perfect stranger Jill noticed one of the thieves, a slender fellow with a shock of mousy-brown hair, slip out after him, only to return in a few minutes. He sat down compamonably across from Rhodry without so much as a by-your-leave.
'You were right to turn him down, silver dagger I just talked to the idiot, and he let it slip that this enemy of his is a noble lord.' The thief rolled his eyes heavenward 'As if anyone would touch a job like that! If one of the noble-born got himself done in, wouldn't the town be crawling with the gwerbret's marshals, poking their stinking noses into every corner and wondering how the likes of us made our living? You silver daggers can just ride on again, but us Guildsmen have to live here, you know '
‘True spoken,’ Jill broke in. 'Here, did he say where this noble lord lived?'
'Not to put a name to it, but I got the feeling, just from a few things he said, like, that it was somewhere to the south.'
After the thief took himself off again, Jill sat down next to Rhodry on the unsteady bench
‘Thinking of riding south, my love?'
'I am It gripes my soul, thinking of one of the noble-born murdered by some base-born coward Wonder if we can find our plump little killer again?'
But although they searched the town before they rode out, they never saw nor smelled him
The late afternoon sun, flecked with dust motes, streamed in the windows of the great hall At the far side of the round room, a couple of members of the warband were wagering on the dice, while others sipped ale and talked about very little Tieryn Dwaen of Bringerun lounged back m his carved chair, put his feet up on the honour table, and watched the first flies of spring as he sipped a tankard of ale His guest, Lord Cadlew of Marcbyr, sat at his right and fussed over a dog from the pack lying round their feet. A fine, sleek greyhound of the breed known as gwertroedd, this dog was new since Cadlew's last visit, or at least, the last one when he'd had time to pay attention to something as mundane as a dog.
'Do you want him?' Dwaen said 'He's yours if you do.'
'Splendidly generous of you, but not necessary '
'Go ahead, take him. He's the last thing my father ever bought, and for all that he's a splendid hunter, I'd just as soon have him out of my sight.'
Cadlew looked up with a troubled toss of his blond head.
'Well, in that case I'll take him with me when I ride home. My thanks, Dwaen.'
Dwaen shrugged and signalled the page, Laryn, to come pour more ale. The boy was the son of one of his vassals sent to the tieryn for his training, and raising him was now Dwaen's responsibility. Even though it was over a month since he'd inherited, Dwaen still found it terrifying that he was the tieryn, responsible for the demesne and the lives of everyone on it.
'You know,' Cadlew said, and very slowly and carefully. 'I've been wanting to talk to you about the death. I can't help thinking you were a bit of a fool.'
'Fine friend you are. Did you ride all this way just to twit me?'
'Nah, nah, nah, my friend, and I call you that truly. I came to give you a warning. Lord Beryn offered you twice the gold of your father's blood price. I don't see why you didn't take the Iwdd and be done with it.'
'Because I wanted my father's murderer hanged. It should be obvious.'
'But young Madryc was the only son Beryn had. He won't forget this.'
'Neither will I. Da was the only father I happened to have, too.'
With a sigh Cadlew drank his ale in silence. Although he felt his wound of rage opening, Dwaen could forgive his friend's lack of understanding. Doubtless every lord in Gwaentaer was wondering why he'd pushed the law to its limit and insisted that the gwerbret hang Madryc. Most would have taken the twelve gold pieces and got their satisfaction in knowing that Beryn had impoverished himself and his clan to raise them.
'It's the principle of the thing,' Dwaen said, choosing his words carefully. 'It's a wrong thing to take gold for blood when a man murders in malice. If it'd been an oath-sworn blood feud or suchlike, no doubt I would have felt different, but that drunken young cub deserved death.'
'But it would have been better if you'd killed him yourself instead of running to the laws like a woman. Beryn would have understood that.'
'And why should I add one murder to another when we've got a gwerbret not forty miles north of here?'
'Ye gods, Dwaen, you talk like a cursed priest!'
'If I'd had brothers I would have been a priest, and you know it as well as I do.’
In a few minutes what kin Dwaen did have left came down from the women's hall, his mother, Slaecca, and his sister, Ylaena, with their serving women trailing after. Her hair coiffed in the black headscarf of a widow, Slaecca was pale, her face drawn, as if she were on the edge of a grave illness, every movement slow and measured to mete out her shreds of strength. Ylaena, pretty, slender, and sixteen, looked bewildered, as she had ever since the murder.