"Jude Fisher - Fool's Gold 01 - Sorcery Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fisher Jude)

too hard when trying to brush out his forelock. Saro knew better than to force his will
upon the animals thus, consequently, they never bit him. It was a curious fact, though,
that animals did not much like his brother. Tanto was always getting kicked or bitten by
something. It was noticeable, too, how at home cats would slink silently past him, low on
their hocks, close to the walls; while in the long, warm Istrian evenings, when the last rays
of sun spilled through the tall windows to make honey-colored pools of light on the
polished floors, the greyhounds would watch him out of the corners of their anxious black
eyes whenever he moved from his chair, which was rare enough, so long as there was a
pitcher of beer or a flask of araque at hand.
"It'll be a killer, that one," Tanto muttered darkly. "I told father the last time it bit me
that we'd be better off serving it to the dogs than shipping it all the way to the Allfair on
the bastard barge." He picked up a piece of black stone, walked it adroitly between his
fingers for a few seconds, then threw it with sudden vicious force at the offending animal.
Accurate as ever, Tanto's shot hit the horse on the tender spot between haunch and flank,
and the creature shied up and sped off to the other side of the enclosure, white panic
encircling its eyes. "Worthless runt!"
Saro frowned, but said nothing. Night's Harbinger was the best of their bunch, a rangy
runner with a fine turn of speed, likely on a good day to win any race they set him to.
Besides which, he'd long since learned never to get in the way of his brother's frequent
tempests of rage; even commenting on them had earned him cuts and bruises as a child.
Instead, he gathered up the grooming kit, replacing each brush and flask of oil carefully
into the pockets in the soft cloth roll in which he kept them, and said: "So which contest do
you think you have the best chance at?"
A climate change came over Tanto. It was as if all the black clouds had blown away and
a sun shone down upon the world. A handsome, athletic lad, and well aware of it, nothing
pleased him more than to have someone showing interest in him, even if it was only his
measly little brother. He shook his head and the light played dutifully upon each black
curl, upon the taut plane of his cheek, and the hollow of his smooth throat and came to
rest finally upon his prized choker of sardonyx, its alternating bands of finest red
chalcedony and lucent quartz a perfect foil to the dark warmth of his skin. His expression
relaxed into a wide, delighted smile.
"Why, all of them, brother! I've been training, you know."
It was true: he had. While Saro and the younger boys had their knuckles rapped by
their humorless tutor in the dull, cool silence of the learning house, outside in the
sunshine, Tanto was plowing a furrow in the lake with his effortless backstroke; or casting
a carefully-weighted spear across the homefield into distant straw targets under the
discerning eye of their Uncle Fabel; punching mercilessly some poor slave boy who'd been
wrapped in padded leather and given some rudimentary fist training; or out with their
father, Favio Vingo, in the hills, triumphantly shooting rabbits full of quills from his short
bow. Seeing in his eldest son the Allfair champion he had never quite been, Favio lavished
upon Tanto the finest of weapons—sabers of Forent steel and pattern-welded daggers
from the north; bows crafted from aged oak and arrows fletched with the feathers of
geese bred specifically for the purpose at Lake Jetra, way down on the Tilsen Plain. Tanto
had the pick of everything—from the first cut of the roast, to the most exclusive of his
father's courtesans. It was only fair, he said, when you considered the riches and the glory
his prowess would bring to the family name.
Saro smiled back at his brother (a smile that did not quite touch his eyes) feeling for
his sibling the usual resentment simmering quietly away beneath his calm exterior, and
let the never-ending flow of boasts pass like hot air above his head. Saro himself had
always failed miserably in the contests at which Tanto excelled. He didn't appear to have