"David Farland - Runelords 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farland David)

throw from Smiths' Row, where the open-air hearths gave rise to the rhythmic ring of hammers, the creaking of bellows, and
plumes of smoke.
He felt troubled that he'd been so lulled by the peacefulness of Bannisferre. He'd not even bothered to glance at this woman
when she had stood next to him for a moment. Twice in his life, he'd been the target of assassins. They'd taken his mother, his
grandmother, his brother and two sisters. Yet Gaborn stood here now as carefree as a peasant with a stomach full of ale.
No, Gaborn decided quickly, I've never seen her; she knows I'm a stranger, yet holds my hand. Most bewildering.
In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had studied the subtleties of bodily communication--the way
secrets revealed themselves in an enemy's eyes, how to differentiate traces of worry from consternation or fatigue in the lines
around a lover's mouth.
Gaborn's hearthmaster, Jorlis, had been a wise teacher, and over the past few long winters Gaborn had distinguished himself
in his studies.
He'd learned that princes, highwaymen, merchants, and beggars all wore their expressions and stances as if part of some
agreed-upon costume, and so Gaborn had mastered the art of putting on any costume at will. He could take command of a
roomful of young men simply by standing with head high, cause a merchant to lower his prices with a balking smile.
Concealed by nothing more than a fine traveling cloak, Gaborn learned to lower his eyes in a busy marketplace and play the
pauper, slinking through the crowd so that those who saw him did not recognize a prince, but wondered, Ah, where did that
beggar boy steal such a nice cloak?
So Gaborn could read the human body, and yet he remained a perpetual mystery to others. With two endowments of wit, he
could memorize a large tome in an hour. He'd learned more in his eight years in the House of Understanding than most
commoners could learn in a life of concerted study.
As a Runelord, he had three endowments of brawn and two of stamina, and in battle practice he could easily cross weapons
with men twice his size. If ever a highwayman dared attack him, Gaborn would prove just how deadly a Runelord could be.
Yet in the eyes of the world, because of his few endowments of glamour, he seemed to be little more than a startlingly
handsome young man. And in a city like Bannisferre, with its singers and actors from across the realm, even beauty such as his
was common.
He studied the woman who held him, considered her stance. Chin high, confident, yet slightly tilted. A question. She poses a
question of me.
The touch of her hand--weak enough to indicate hesitancy, strong enough to suggest...ownership. She was claiming him?
Is this an attempt at seduction? he wondered. But no--the body stance felt wrong. If she had wanted to seduce, she'd have
touched the small of his back, a shoulder, even his buttock or chest. Yet as she held him she stood slightly away, hesitating to
claim his body space.
Then he understood: a marriage proposal. Very uncustomary, even in Heredon. For a woman of her quality, the family
should have easily arranged a marriage.
Gaborn surmised, Ah, she is orphaned. She hopes to arrange her own match!
Yet even that answer did not satisfy him. Why did not a wealthy lord arrange a match for her?
Gaborn considered how she must see him now. A merchant's son. He'd been playing the merchant; and though he was
eighteen, his growth had not come in fully. Gaborn had dark hair and blue eyes, traits common in North Crowthen. So he'd
dressed like a fop from that kingdom, one with more wealth than taste, out wandering the town while his father conducted
more important business. He wore green hose and pants that gathered above the knee, along with a fine white cotton shirt with
ballooning sleeves and silver buttons. Over the shirt, he wore a jerkin of dark green cotton trimmed in finely tooled leather,
decorated with freshwater pearls. Completing the disguise was a broad-brimmed hat, on which an amber clasp held a single
ostrich plume.
Gaborn had dressed this way because he did not want to travel openly on his mission to spy out Heredon's defenses, to gauge
the true extent of the wealth of its lands, the hardiness of its people.
Gaborn glanced back toward his bodyguard Borenson. The streets here were crowded, made narrow by the vendors' stalls. A
beefy, bronze-skinned young man with no shirt and red pants was herding a dozen goats through the throng, whipping them
with a willow switch. Across the road, beneath a stone arch beside the door to the inn, Borenson stood grinning broadly at
Gaborn's predicament. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a balding head of red hair, a thick beard, and laughing blue
eyes.
Beside Borenson stood a skeletal fellow with blond hair cropped short. To match his chestnut eyes he wore a historian's