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

The armaragor had put the toe of one of his boots into Craer's thigh, not ungently, and the procurer had
added hastily, "A tall, beautiful thing, or so we're told, whom no one ever sees these days—not that many
folk have ever been welcome to step into Castle Silvertree, or wanted to. She wears gowns festooned with
gems; everyone still agrees on that, and she certainly did when she was a wisp of a girl; I saw her ... and
her forty-three guards."
"Not a pleasant memory?"
Craer had shrugged, licking grease from his fingertips. "I'm sitting here talking to you with all of my
limbs intact, am I not?"
Hawkril had given him a grin. "Yet I'd not be mis-taken in thinking she lost no gems that day?"
The procurer had sighed theatrically, and told his fin-gernails, "I thought that if I let the girl be, she'd
grow much larger... and of course, her gowns would grow with her, so I'd have more and bigger gems to
harvest, some day...."
"We set off to conquer the Isles," Hawkril had growled slowly, "and now we're talking about stealing a
lady's dress."
"Not just any lady," Craer had reminded him. "And recluse or not, this one can hardly be innocent or
even nice—after all, she's Baron Faerod's daughter! The Lady of Jewels, famous for her life of indolent
luxury. She probably has forty gowns festooned with gems— and only one body to wear them. "Why, she
probably has wardrobes and even whole robing chambers full of gowns she's tired of and won't wear. We'll
be doing her a favor by taking one off her hands—and one, just one should be good for five or six seasons
of guzzling wine and searching for just the right woman in Sirlptar, or even fabled Renshoun across the
Spellgirt Sea."
Hawkril had shrugged. Craer had done it again. "Well, if you put it that way ...," he'd said slowly.
"Yes, we may well die in the trying," the procurer had hissed in his ear, "but why not go splendidly,
fight-ing and striving, instead of shivering away cold winter nights of hunger, waiting for the wolves to end it
all?"
 Water slapped his face again, jolting Hawkril out of his memories of warm dripping lamb. If he'd dared
to speak at all, he'd have dared the procurer swimming at his elbow to justify stealing a gown—a lady's
gown, sargh and bebolt it!—again.
But they were close in under the grim gray walls now, and he dared not say a word. The icy breeze
ghost-ing past could well be carrying the ears of a listening wizard. A mage whose boredom would die
swiftly in the glee of slaughtering two outlaws daring to intrude on the island that was Castle Silvertree.
Why, oh why, did he let Longfingers talk him into such madnesses? They'd agreed to get in, steal a
gown or whatever else of substantial worth they could easily carry off that didn't look magical, and get out
without tarrying to explore or get greedy.
Castle Silvertree occupied an entire island in the Sil-verflow ... or at least its walls enclosed the isle.
Walls that now towered up into the night like a black hand raised against them—a black gauntlet waiting to
close down and crush what it grasped.
It was well known that a forested garden grew at the heart of the island, between the palace wherein
dwelt the Lady Embra Silvertree—the tall, beautiful, never-seen Lady of Jewels—at its downstream end,
and a dock and fortress, the true Castle Silvertree, at the "prow," or eastern end. Walls as steep and
crenellated as any bold baron's linked them, rising from the rocky roots of the isle like a huge shield to wall
out unwanted intruders. Two desperate outlaws from the ruin of Ezen-dor Blackgult's army, for instance.
The Golden Griffon badge they'd been so proud to wear would now mean their deaths—and a ruthless
man somewhere on the island ahead seemed a few swift battles away from claiming the kingdom Blackgult
had fallen short of, with the baronies of Brostos, Maerlin, and Ornentar bowing to his writ and wishes. A
greater snake than anything the Silverflow might hold.
The river rippled again, carrying away most of Hawkril's deep growl of anger.
Craer had led the way, striking out from shore the moment full night was down and the river mists had
risen, hopefully cloaking them from any watchers on the frowning battlements. Their only hope of reaching
the isle without tiring was to swim for the dock and let the river carry them down the length of the fortified