"Nancy Kress - Arms and the Woman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

posted a watchraven. I needed to use everything at my disposal, both scrolls and
spells, to learn what I could about First Dame Cecilie of Castle Thlevin.
***
“What did he say? What did he tell you?” The tyros crowded around Marigold in the
Third Bedchamber. They had just come in from strength training and the smell of
strong healthy sweat perfumed the summer air. “What’s he going to do, Marigold?”
“He’s going to think.”
The other residents of the Third Bedchamber nodded sagely, but Tyro Anna frowned.
She was first bed in the First Bedchamber, top of the lists, and wouldn’t have ventured
this far near the bottom for anything less momentous than haunting by a relative.
Anna was tough, smart, and much resented, although this did not save her from
Loremaster Gwillam’s sarcasm. Some of the other girls turned to stare at her coldly.
Anna said, “ `Think‘? That’s it? What action is he going to take on your behalf,
Marigold?”
“He’s going to send for me this evening,” Marigold said. She smiled, glad to have been
able to produce information for Anna, whom she admired. It was a smile of exceptional
sweetness; Marigold possessed neither jealousy nor malice.
Anna said, “That’s not action, that’s postponement of action. Did he say anything
else? Try to remember!”
Obediently Marigold racked her mind. “Nooo… that was all.”
“Then keep me informed of your next visit to him,” Anna ordered, and swept out of
the room.
Catherine muttered, “That one will be having to haunt somebody herself, someday.
To study humility.”
 “Oh, never mind her,” Elizabeth said. “Tell us again about the ghost, Mar!”
Obligingly Marigold described yet again the terrible armless figure in the long red
robe, while the Third Bedchamber shivered and squealed.
***
After six hours of scrolls and spells so intense that my head hurt, I knew much more
about First Dame Cecilie than she would have liked me to know. Or anyone else,
either. I poured myself an ale, watched the glory the sinking sun made of my small
stained-glass window, and pondered amid the litter of my small library.
First Dame Cecilie had been born into an undistinguished yeoman
family—Marigold’s family—in West Riding, forty-seven years ago. She had been
tested in the usual way at her woman-ceremony, and, astonishingly, had proved to
have ability in knighthood, lore, war counsel, and barter. Only at childlove and
housewifery had she scored low. Several castles had made her a bid, and her proud
parents had chosen knighthood at Castle Treffin, very ivy-rank. Cecilie had easily
become first bed in the First Bedchamber, and at class knighting she’d won every
honor open to her. She’d left Treffin to join Princess Margaret’s army, then invading
the Sixth Kingdom, and distinguished herself in several battles. She’d married a
beautiful and wealthy landowner, Duke Michael of Kern, and had done such a superb
job of reorganizing and leading his household forces that no one had dared challenge
the duke’s army.
That had apparently been the problem.
Cecilie had had nothing more to do. There was no war to fight. She’d borne Michael
twins, beautiful daughters, but she had no talent for housewifery or childlove, and her
daughters did not fill her days. The house steward, a woman just as formidable as
Cecilie, successfully resisted Cecilie’s efforts to take over the household barter. Cecilie
grew more idle, more bitter, and more desperate. Michael did not understand. They