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

“I can do more than that,” said Cray, “but I would not wish to damage your property, my lord.”

“No more is necessary, my curiosity is satisfied.” He called over his shoulder,

“Steward!”

The steward, who was among those who had reeled back from the magic of the sleeve, skittered to his liege’s side. He was a small, slight man with a spade beard, and he held his hands curled to his chest as if protecting some treasure that lay within. “My lord?”

“Serve this young man supper, and then give him whatever arms and armor he requires.

As a personal gift from me.”

Cray bowed. “My lord, I have silver enough to pay.”

The lord bowed in return. “As you wish. Let the price be a fair one, steward. And Master Cray—please convey my best wishes to your mother.”

“I will, my lord.”

“This way, sir,” said the steward.

Cray bolted a quick supper, then followed the steward to the armory, which was a long narrow room with hundreds of steel pegs driven into its stone walls and all the trappings of combat hung upon those pegs. With the steward’s help, Cray selected a blank shield, a simple bowl-shaped helm with movable visor, a shirt and hood and leg harnesses of chain, and a sword in a plain scabbard. All were in good condition, though all had seen use. The sword was nicked in two places; the steward offered to have the nicks ground out, but Cray refused.

“It will only get nicked again when I use it,” he said. He tested the balance of the blade, swinging at an imaginary foe. His wooden sword had not been light, but steel was heavier, and he knew that the muscles in his arms were not yet strong enough to wield it for long. Yet its haft fit his grip well, for though his body was not full grown, his hands were already man-sized.

“It is large for you,” said the steward.

“Not for the man I will be.” He slid the blade into its scabbard and set the two atop the blank shield. “Steward, how long have you been with this house?”

“All my life, young sir. And my father before me.”

Cray folded the chain mail into a manageable bundle, and the links chinked softly under his bands. “Thirteen years ago, my father may have stopped at this fortress. He was perhaps twenty years in age, and the device on his shield was three red lances

interlocked upon a white field. Do you remember him?“

“You spoke of him to my lord, did you not? My lord did not recall him.”

“Your lord is a man whose attention must be consumed by greater things. A steward, though, might notice one insignificant traveler.”

The steward plucked thoughtfully at his beard. “We have few visitors. But, no.” He shook his head. “I have no memory of such a one. Are you certain he came this way?”

Cray sighed. “No.”

“Perhaps he passed us, not wishing to stop with strangers.”

“Perhaps.“

“If you wish, I will ask a few others who were here at that time. There may be someone who remembers him.”

Cray smiled. “That would be kind of you.”