"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

“You’ll see the forge.” He eyed Gallant ‘Fine looking horse you have there. Very fine—

for such a young lad.“

Cray smiled. “He has a vile temper, though. Watch you stay clear—he might kick.”

The man stepped back, heels nudging the bundle of faggots behind nun. “If he kicks me, I’ll have your hide, lad.”

“If he kicks you, you won’t have anything, good sir.” He waved a farewell and walked up the indicated street, Gallant ambling docilely after.

He found the smithy without any trouble. The smith, finished with his work for the day, was sitting in a large chair in front of the forge, watching the fire burn low.

“May I tie my horse to your rail and speak a moment with you, sir?” asked Cray.

The smith nodded. He was a short man but very broad of shoulder, with muscles

hardened by metal-work. He looked at Cray only briefly, reserving the majority of his attention for Gallant. “That’s a well-made animal,” he said.

“I have been told so, sir, but I am no judge of horseflesh.”

“He is well-shod, too, so what might you need of me?”

“I am looking for a sword, sir. And a shield and helm and chain mail as well, but the sword comes first.”

The smith shook his head. “I cannot help you, boy. Ask me to shoe your horse or mend your wagon, and I will do it easily. But I am no sword-maker.”

“Where might I find one, then?”

“Not in this town.” He frowned, fingering his chin. “The lord buys his weapons from a merchant of the south, and good weapons they are, so I hear. You might go up to the Great House and ask if they would sell you one.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cray bowed. “Will you direct me to the Great House?”

The smith waved one hand. “Follow this street to the wall, then take the east gate road.

You will come to it shortly.”

“Good day to you.”

Beyond the wall, Cray saw the Great House immediately—a stone fortress that had been hidden from his sight previously by the bulk of the town itself. A wide, tree-lined road ran between cultivated fields from town to castle, and upon that rutted surface, a few late stragglers trudged townward. Cray guided Gallant past them, then allowed the impatient beast to trot, as if it were trying to overtake the long shadow that stretched like a herald before it. Summer twilight was settling slowly over the land as they drew up before the castle entry.

Two guards in studded leather jerkins challenged Cray. “You are not of this town,” said one of them.

“Indeed, I am a stranger,” he replied. “I seek a sword and armor and was told that I might be able to purchase them here.”

The guard who had spoken studied him a moment, and then studied Gallant for another.

He turned to his mate. “Who would we ask about such a thing?”

The other shrugged. “The captain might know.” He, too, eyed Cray and the horse.