"Raymond E. Feist - Empire Saga 1 - Daughter Of The Empire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

started almost imperceptibly each time the litter moved as one of her bearers shifted grip to sip from the
flask carried by the water-bearer. Mara closed her eyes, inwardly pleading Lashima's favour.

The road beyond the crest was rutted and treacherous with loose stone. Men and animals were
forced to step with care, eyes upon the path. Time and again the gravel would turn underfoot and
pebbles would bounce and rattle downslope, to slash with a clatter through the treetops. Jostled as her
slaves fought the uncertain terrain, Mara caught herself holding her breath. She bit her lip and forced
herself not to look back or show any sign that her caravan was not upon an ordinary journey.

Keyoke had not mentioned that the Acoma soldiers who followed could not cross this ridge without
being observed; they would have to circle round by way of the wood. Until they regained their position a
short distance behind, Mara's caravan was as vulnerable as a jigahen in the courtyard as the cook
approaches with his chopping knife.

At the floor of the ravine the wood seemed denser: damp soil covered with blackferns spread
between huge boles of pynon trees, their shaggy aromatic bark interlaced with vines. The slaves who
carried the litter breathed deeply, grateful for the cooler forest. Yet to Mara the air seemed dead after the
capricious breezes of the heights. Or perhaps it was simply tension that made the stillness oppressive?
The click as she flicked open her fan caused several warriors to turn sharply.

Here even bare rock was mantled with leaf mould, and footfalls became deadened to silence.
Creaking wagon sounds were smothered by walls of vines and tree trunks; this forest gave back nothing.

Papewaio faced forward, his eyes continually scanning the darkness on either side. His hand never
strayed from the intricate hide lacings that bound the hilt of his sword. Watching him, Mara thought upon
her father, who had died knowing allies had betrayed him. She wondered what had become of his
sword, a work of art with its carved hilts and jewelled sheath. The shatra bird of the Acoma had been
worked in enamel on the pommel, and the blade fashioned in the jessami method, three hundred needra
hide strips, each scraped to paper thinness, then cleverly and painstakingly laminated - for even a
needle-point bubble of air would render it useless - to a metal hardness with an edge unmatched save for
the legendary steel swords of the ancients. Perhaps some barbarian warlord wore the sword as a trophy
now . . . perhaps he would be an honourable man, if a barbarian was capable of being such. Mara forced
away such morbid thoughts. Feeling smothered by the oppressive stillness and the dark foliage overhead,
she clenched her hands until her delicate wood fan threatened to snap.

'Lady, I ask leave to permit the men a chance to rest and replenish the flasks,' said Papewaio.

Mara started, nodded, and raked back the damp hair that clung to her temples. The caravan had
reached the spring without incident. Ponderous wheels ground to a halt; warriors arrayed themselves in
defensive positions, while the foot slave and several of the drovers hastened to them with moist cloths
and a meal of thyza biscuit and dried fruit. Other men attended to the needra, while the bearers lowered
Mara's litter with stifled grunts of relief. They then stood patiently awaiting their turn to rinse their faces at
the spring.

Papewaio returned from the lines of warriors and knelt before his mistress. 'Would my Lady care to
leave the litter and walk about?'

Mara extended her hand, her full sleeve trailing nearly to the ground. The dagger concealed by the
garment dragged at her wrist, an unfamiliar lump she carried awkwardly. She had wrestled with
Lanokota as a child, to Nacoya's continual dismay, but weapons had never attracted her. Keyoke has