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

austere brownish robes and a disapproving scowl. The man, simply called by his vocation, Days, was a chronicler of sorts--a
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devotee of the Time Lords--who had been following Gaborn now since Gaborn was an infant, recording his every word and
deed. He took his name from the order of "the Days." Like every man of his sect, Days had given up his own name, his own
identity, when he'd twinned his mind with that of another of his order. Days watched Gaborn now, keenly. Alert, eyes
flickering about. Memorizing everything. The woman who held Gaborn's hand followed his glance, noting the bodyguard and
Days. A young merchant lord with a guard was common. One shadowed by a Days was rare. It marked Gaborn as someone of
wealth and import, perhaps the son of a guildmaster, yet this woman could not possibly have known Gaborn's true identity.
She pulled his hand, invited him to stroll. He hesitated. "Do you see anything in market that interests you?" she asked,
smiling. Her sweet voice was as inviting as the cardamom-flavored pastries sold here in the market, yet slightly mocking.
Clearly, she wanted to know if she interested him. Yet those around her would mistakenly believe she spoke of the wine
chillers.
"The silver shows some decent handiwork," Gaborn said. Using the powers of his Voice, he put a slight emphasis on hand.
Without ever recognizing why, she would believe that in Understanding's House, he had studied in the Room of Hands, as rich
merchants did. Let her believe me to be a merchant.
The vendor of the stall, who had patiently ignored Gaborn until now, lurched from under the shade of his rectangular
umbrella, calling, "The sir would like a fine chiller for the madam?"
Until a moment ago Gaborn had seemed only a merchant boy, one who might have reported to his father any interesting
wares. Now perhaps the merchant thought him a newlywed, with a wife far more handsome than himself. Merchant lords often
married their children off young, seeking monetary alliances.
So the vendor thinks I must buy the silver to humor my wife. Of course such a lovely woman would rule her household.
Since the merchant did not know her, Gaborn imagined that she would also have to be a stranger to Bannisferre. A traveler
from the north?
The young woman smiled kindly at the vendor. "I think not today," she teased. "You have some fine chillers, but we have
better at home." She turned her back, playing her role as wife exquisitely. This is how it would be if we married, her actions
seemed to say. I'd make no costly demands.
The vendor's face fell in dismay. It was unlikely that more than one or two merchants in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan had
such a fine wine cooler.
She pulled Gaborn along. Suddenly, Gaborn felt uneasy. In the far south, ladies of Indhopal sometimes wore rings or
brooches with poisoned needles in them. They would try to lure wealthy travelers to an inn, then murder and rob them. It could
be that this beauty had nefarious designs.
Yet he doubted it. A quick glance showed that Borenson was certainly more amused than concerned. He laughed and
blushed, as if to ask, And where do you think you're going?
Borenson, too, was a student of body language--particularly that of women. He never took risks with his lord's safety.
The woman squeezed Gaborn's hand, readjusting her grip, holding him more firmly. Was she seeking a greater claim to his
attentions?
"Pardon me if I seem over familiar, good sir," she said. "Have you ever noticed someone from a distance, and felt a tug in
your heart?"
Her touch thrilled him, and Gaborn wanted to believe that, indeed, she'd seen him from afar and fallen in love.
"No, not like this," he said. Yet he felt it a lie. He'd once fallen in love from afar.
The sun shone on them; the skies were brilliant. The air blowing off the river smelled warm and sweet, carrying the scent of
hay fields from across the shore. On such a fine day, how could anyone feel anything but invigorated, alive?
The cobbles on the street here were smooth with age. Half a dozen flower girls strolled barefoot through the crowd, calling
for patrons in clear voices. They blew past, a breeze rippling a wheat field. They all wore faded dresses and white aprons. They
held the centers of their aprons up with one hand, making their aprons into a kind of sack, sacks filled with riotous colors--
brilliant burgundy cornflowers and white daisies, long-stemmed roses in deepest reds and peach. Poppies and bundles of
sweet-scented lavender.
Gaborn watched the girls drift by, feeling that their beauty was as stunning as that of larks in flight, knowing he would never
forget their smiles. Six girls, all with blond or light-brown hair.
His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without