"ED Greenwood - Band of Four 01 - The Kingless Land" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

yes, but... bards come seldom to Ragalar, and respected mer-chants look ill on their sons learning
ballads when they could—should—be mastering a trade."
The old man nodded silently. There was something of danger removed in that gaze, like a dagger
being slid back into a sheath. Out of habit Flaeros called on the Vodal then, letting it govern his
right eye, while he kept his left gazing unchanged on the old man with the golden eyes.
His right eye regarded a rather different man looking back at him over a goblet. A younger man,
though no youth—a man of weathered features, piercing black eyes, and the lionlike build and
manner of a warlord who rides into battle rather than lounging on a baron's throne. A man who was
holding a hand-length deadly firelance wand trained at the breast of Flaeros Delcamper.
The hairy-knuckled hand that held that wand so pa-tiently and steadily bore a large gold ring,
and its large head in turn bore the device of a golden griffon.
Flaeros drew in a tense breath and devoted himself to looking innocent. It would have been more
difficult if he'd known what, by the Three, was going on—yet thanks to those same gods, truth had
always been in short supply in Darsar.
"So," he asked, with a joviality he did not feel, "what should a man visiting Sirlptar do to stay out
of trou-ble?"
Inderos Stormharp chuckled. "Too late, lad," he added, waving to Maershee for more wine with
a hand that—without the Vodal—seemed empty of both ring and wand. "You'll just have to settle
down to enjoying yourself instead."
 1
The Lady of Jewels
The River Coiling is cold at night. It slid endlessly and restlessly past Hawkril's shoulders as he swam
steadily closer to the solid stone darkness of the castle walls, hoping no alert guard would hear Craer's teeth
chattering beside him—and that they'd not meet with a watersnake.
But then, what was one more pair of hungry fangs now? They were outlaws, every man's hand raised
against them. As a ripple slapped his face with chilling water, Hawkril recalled their desperate scheming,
over a meager fire high in the Wildrocks.
It had been cold then, too, and he'd challenged his clever-tongued, spiderlike comrade to find them a
warm lair before the winter snows.
"With what?" Craer had snarled.
"Your wits, Longfingers," the armaragor had told him, almost merrily, knowing they hadn't even coins
enough between them to buy an ax to hew firewood. Craer Delnbone was quick-witted, too (no army
pro-curer prospered for long who wasn't). After all, "pro-curer" was just a handsome title for a word most
folk knew rather better: thief.
"The only places that seem to have coins to spare are Sirlptar," Craer had reasoned, "which holds far too
many prying mages for my liking—and Silvertree, which already regards us as foes to be slain."
"I knew we were going to end up charging right at the throat of the strongest foe you could find,"
Hawkril had answered. "How are we going to find out where Faerod keeps his gold? His castle fills an
entire island! He's got that wizard Gadaster, too!"
Craer had smiled, and shared his one good bit of news: "I heard two merchants in Dranmaer hawing on
about how important they were and how much they'd make off of Silvertree. One of them said old Mulkyn
died whilst we were away at war. They wondered about his replacements—and if Aglirta has heard
nothing of them, they can't be powerful mages hired from some-one else in the Vale—and so can only be
more feeble at magic than Gadaster was .. . and thus hopefully less likely to find and track down two gown
thieves."
"'Gown thieves'?" Hawkril had asked patiently, as he'd known he was supposed to.
"Who's the richest woman in the baronies?" Craer had asked briskly.
He hadn't had to frown for long. "The Lady of Jew-els," he'd replied, "or so rumor has it."
"Exactly," the procurer had agreed, proceeding to make a show of leisurely taking a tiny bite of the
stolen lamb they were sharing.