"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

he had not known what to expect, but he could have been a wooden simulacrum for all the man looked
at him.
He was a mercenary mage, one of the hire-ons that Urtho had taken as his own allies and
apprentices proved inadequate to take on all the mages that Ma'ar controlled. While he was probably a
handsome man, it was difficult to tell that at the moment. His expression was as rigid and unreadable as a
mask, and his needs were, to be blunt, basic.
In fact, if he wanted what he said he wanted, he need not have come to Amberdrake for it. He
could have gone to any of the first- or second-rank kestra'chern in the cadre and spent a great deal less
money. The illusion of grace and luxury, relaxation, pampering—and the inevitable: a kestra'chern was
not a bedmate-for-hire, although plenty of people had that impression, this mage included. If that was all
he wanted, there were plenty of sources for that, including, if the man were up to it, actually winning the
respect of someone.
Amberdrake was tempted to send him away for just that reason; this was, in its way, as insulting as
ordering a master cook to make oatmeal.
But as he had told the General, as every kestra'chern must, he had learned over the years that what
a client asked for might not be what he wanted—and what he wanted might not even be something he
understood. That was what made him the expert he was.
When a few quiet questions elicited nothing more than a growled order to "just do your job,"
Amberdrake stood up and surveyed the man from a position of superior height.
"I can't do my job to your satisfaction if you're a mass of tension," he countered sternly. "And what's
more, I can't do it to my satisfaction. Now, why don't we just start with a simple massage?"
He nodded at the padded table on the brighter side of the chamber, and the mage reluctantly rose,
and even more reluctantly took his place on it.
Gesten appeared as if Amberdrake had called him, and deftly stripped the man down and put out
the oils. Amberdrake chose one scented with chamomile and infused with herbs that induced relaxation,
then began with the mage's shoulders. With a Healer's hands, he sought out and released knots of
tension—and, as always, the release of tension released information about the source of the tension.
"It's Winterhart," the man said with irritation. "She's started pulling away from me, and damned if I
know why! I just don't understand her anymore, but I told her that if she wasn't willing to give me
satisfaction, I could and damned well would go elsewhere for it."
Amberdrake surmised from the feelings associated with the woman's name that "Winterhart" was
this fellow's lover—or at least, he thought she was. Odd, for that kind of name was usually worn by one
of the Kaled'a'in, and yet he seldom saw Kaled'a'in associating intimately with those of other races.
"So why did you come here?" Amberdrake asked, prodding a little at the knot of tangled emotions
as he prodded at the knotted muscles. "Why not someone—less expensive?"
The man grunted. "Because the whole army knows your name," he replied. "Everyone in our section
will know I came here this afternoon and there won't be any question why."
Very tangled emotions, he mused. Because although the top layer was a desire to hurt by going
publicly to a notorious—or famed, depending on your views—kestra'chern, underneath was a peculiar
and twisted desire to flatter. As if by going only to the best and most expensive, he was trying to say to
Winterhart that nothing but the best would remotely be a substitute for her.
And another layer—in doing so he equated her to a paid companion, thereby once again insulting
her by counting her outside his personal, deeper emotional life. Still, there was that backhanded flattery.
Amberdrake was not a bedmate for hire, he was a kestra'chern, a profession which was held in high
regard by Urtho and most of the command-circle. Among the Kaled'a'in, he was the next thing to a
Goddess-touched priest. The word itself had connotations of divine insight and soul healing, and of
friendship. So, then, there was wishful thinking—or again, the desire to impress this "Winterhart,"
whoever she was.
There were more mysteries than answers no matter where he turned these days.
"You do know that what happens in this tent depends upon what I decide is best for you, don't