"Lynn Flewelling - Tamir 02 - Hidden Warrior" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flewelling Lynn)

For my sons Matthew and Timothy, who laugh at the same goofy things I do.
You're the best, guys.
Special thanks to Doug Flewelling, Darby Crouss, Laurie Mailman, Julie
Friez,
Scott Burgess, Anne Groell and the Bantam folks, and my agent Lucienne
Diver for all their support, input, and wonderfully ruthless editing.
 The lean ship smashed through foaming crests, pounding southwest out of
Keston toward Skala. By night she ran without lanterns; her crew,
accomplished smugglers all, sailed with eyes lifted skyward to the stars. By
day they kept constant watch, though there was little chance of meeting
another ship. Only a Plenimaran captain would chance deep water sailing so
late in the year and this winter there would be none so far north. Not with a
war brewing.
Ice sheathed the rigging. The sailors pulled the halyards with bleeding
hands, chipped frozen water from the drinking casks, and huddled together
off watch, muttering among themselves about the two gentlemen passengers
and the grim pack of cutthroats who'd come aboard.
The second day out, the captain came above slobbering drunk. Gold was no
use to dead men, he howled over the wind; foul weather was coming, they
were turning back. Smiling, the dark nobleman led him below and that was
the last anyone heard of the matter. The captain fell overboard sometime that
same night. That was the story, at least; the fact was that he was nowhere to
be found the next morning and their course remained unchanged.

The mate took over, tying himself to the wheel as they wallowed along.
Blown off course, they missed Gull Island and sailed on without respite
through lashing sleet and exhaustion. On the fourth day two more men were
swept away as waves nearly swamped the ship. A mast snapped, dragging its
sail like a broken wing. Miraculously, the ship held true while the remaining
crew fought to cut away the tangled ropes.
Clinging among the frozen shrouds that night, the men muttered again, but
cautiously. Their finely dressed passengers had brought ill fortune with them;
no one wanted to chance attracting their eye. The ship plunged on as if helpful
demons guided her keel.
Two days out from Cirna the gale lifted. A pale sun burst through the
shredding clouds to guide the battered vessel westward, but foul luck still
dogged her. A sudden fever struck among the crew. One by one, they sickened,
throats swelling shut as black sores blossomed in the warmth of groins and
armpits. Those untouched by the illness watched in horror as the gentlemen's
men-at-arms laughingly tossed the bloated corpses overboard.
None of the passengers sickened, but by the time they sighted the towering
cliffs of the Skalan Isthmus the last of the crew could feel the weakness
overtaking them.
They reached the mouth of Cirna harbor in darkness, guided by the leaping
signal fires that flanked the mouth of the Canal. Still sagging at the wheel, the
dying mate watched the passengers" men strike the sails, lower anchor, and
heave the longboat over the side.
One of the gentlemen, the dark-haired one with a long scar under his eye,