"Kerr,.Katharine.-.Deverry.01.-.Daggerspell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

Cullyn’s lips twitched in a brief smile.
“I was, truly,” he said. “A long time ago your old Da here was a rider in a warband in Cerrmor, and he got himself into a good bit of trouble. Never dishonor yourself, Jill. You listen to me. Dishonor sticks closer to you than blood on your hands. So my lord kicked me out, as he had every right to do, and there was nothing left for me but the long road.”
“The what?”
“The long road. That’s what silver daggers call our life.”
“But Da, what did you do?”
Cullyn turned to look at her with eyes so cold that Jill was afraid he was going to slap her.
“When you’re done eating,” he said mildly. “We’re going to the market fair and buy you some lad’s clothes. Dresses aren’t any good for riding and camping by the road.”
And Jill realized that she would never have the courage to ask him that question again.
Cullyn was as good as his word about the new clothes. In fact, he bought her so many things, boots, brigga, shirts, a good wool cloak and a small ring brooch to clasp it with that Jill realized she’d never seen him with so much money before, real coins, all of them bright-minted silver. When she asked him about it, Cullyn told her that he’d captured a great lord’s son on the field of battle, and that this money was the ransom the lord’s family had to pay him to get their son back.
“That was honorable, Da,” Jill said. “Not killing him, I mean, and then letting him go home.”
“Honorable?” Cullyn smiled faintly. “I’ll tell you, my sweet, it’s every silver dagger’s dream to capture a lord single-handedly. It’s the coin you want, not the glory. And by the hells, many a poor lordling has made himself a rich lord doing the same thing.”
Jill was honestly shocked. Taking someone prisoner for profit was one of those things that never got mentioned in the bard songs and the glorious tales of war. She was glad enough of the coin, however, especially when Cullyn bought her a pony, a slender gray that she named Gwindyc after the great hero of ancient times. When they returned to the inn, Cullyn took Jill up to their chamber, made her change her clothes, then unceremoniously cropped off her hair like a lad’s with his silver dagger.
“That long hair’s too messy for the road,” he said. “Cursed if I’ll spend my time combing it for you like a nursemaid.”
Jill supposed that he was right, but when she looked at herself in the bit of mirror, she felt that she no longer really knew who she was. The feeling persisted when they went down to the tavern room of the inn for the noon meal. She felt that she should get up and help Blaer the innkeep serve, not sit there and eat stew with the other customers. Because it was market day, the tavern was crowded with merchants, who all wore checked brigga as a sign of their station. They looked Cullyn over with a shudder for the silver dagger in his belt and gave him as wide a berth as possible.
Jill was just finishing her stew when three young riders from a warband swaggered in and demanded ale. Jill knew they were a lord’s riders because their shirts had embroidered blazons, running stags in this case, on the yokes. They stood right in the way near the door and kept Blaer so busy that when Cullyn wanted more ale, he had to get up and fetch it himself. As he was coming back with the full tankard, he had to pass the three riders. One of them stepped forward and deliberately jogged Cullyn’s arm, making him spill the ale.
“Watch your step,” the rider sneered. “Silver dagger.”
Cullyn set the tankard down and turned to face him. Jill climbed up on the table so she could see. Grinning, the other two riders moved back to the wall to leave a clear space around Cullyn and their fellow.
“Are you looking for a fight?” Cullyn said.
“Just looking to make a lout of a silver dagger mind his manners,” the rider said. “What’s your name, scum?”
“Cullyn of Cerrmor. And what’s it to you?”
The room went dead silent as every man in it turned to stare. The other two riders laid urgent hands on their friend’s shoulders.
“Come along, Gruffidd,” one of them said. “Just drink your cursed ale. You’re a bit young to die.”
“Get away,” Gruffidd snarled. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“Calling you a fool,” the rider said, glancing at Cullyn. “Here, our apologies.”
“Don’t you apologize for me,” Gruffidd said. “I don’t give a pig’s fart if he’s the Lord of Hell! Listen, silver dagger, not half of those tales about you can be true.”
“Indeed?” Cullyn laid his hand on his sword hilt.
It seemed that the whole room gasped, even the walls. Jill clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. Frightened men moved back and away, leaving Cullyn and Gruffidd facing each other.
“Here!” Blaer yelped. “Not in my inn!”
Too late—Gruffidd drew his sword. With a sour smile, Cullyn drew his own, but he let the blade trail lazily in his hand with the point near the floor. The room was so quiet that Jill heard her heart pounding. Gruffidd moved and struck—the sword went flying out of his hand. Across the room men yelped and dodged as the sword fell clattering to the floor. Cullyn had his blade raised, but casually, as if he were only using it to point out something. There was a smear of blood on it. Cursing under his breath, Gruffidd clutched his right wrist with his left hand. Blood welled between his fingers.
“I call you all to witness that he struck first,” Cullyn said mildly.
The room broke into excited whispers as Gruffidd’s friends dragged him away. Blaer hurried after them, quite pale and carrying the rider’s sword. Cullyn wiped the blood off his sword on his brigga leg, sheathed it, then picked up his tankard and came back to the table.
“Jill, get down!” he snapped. “Where’s your courtesy?”
“I just wanted to see, Da,” Jill said as she scrambled down. “That was splendid. I never even saw you move.”
“Neither did he. Well, Jill, I’m going to drink this ale, and then we’ll be packing up and getting on the road.”
“I thought we were going to stay here tonight.”
“We were.”
All a-flutter, Blaer ran over to them.
“By the hells,” Blaer said. “How often does this sort of thing happen to you?”
“Far too often,” Cullyn said. “These young dogs would count it an honor to be the man who killed Cullyn of Cerrmor.” He had a long swallow of ale. “So far all they’ve won for their trouble is a broken wrist, but by the hells, it wearies me.”
“So it must.” Blaer shuddered as if he were cold. “Well, lass, it’s a strange life you’re going to lead, riding with him. You’ll make some man a cursed strange wife someday, too.”
“I’ll never marry a man who isn’t as great a swordsman as my Da,” Jill said. “So probably I’ll never marry at all.”
That afternoon they rode fast and steadily, finally stopping about an hour before sunset when Cullyn judged that they were far enough away from Gruffidd’s warband. They found a farmer who let them camp in a corner of his pasture and who sold them oats for Cullyn’s horse and the new pony. While Cullyn scrounged dead wood from the nearby forest for a fire, Jill put the horses on their tether ropes and staked them out. She had to stand on the head of the stakes and use her whole weight, but finally she forced them in. She was starting back to the camp when the gray gnome appeared, popping into reality in front of her and dancing up and down. With a laugh, Jill picked him up in her arms.
“You did follow me! That gladdens my heart.”
The gnome gave her a gape-mouthed grin and put his arms around her neck. He felt dry, a little scaly to the touch, and smelled of freshly turned earth. Without thinking, Jill carried him back to camp and talked all the while about the things that had happened on the road. He listened solemnly, then suddenly twisted in her arms in alarm and pointed. Jill saw Cullyn, trotting back with a load of wood, and his eyes were narrow with exasperation. The gnome vanished.
“Jill, by the gods!” Cullyn snapped. “What cursed strange kind of game or suchlike were you playing? Talking to yourself and pretending to carry something, I mean.”
“It was naught, Da. Just a game.”
Cullyn dumped the wood onto the ground.
“I won’t have it,” he snapped. “It makes you look like a half-wit or suchlike, standing around talking to yourself. I’ll buy you a doll if you want something to talk to that badly.”
“I’ve got a doll, my thanks.”
“Then why don’t you talk to it?”