"Mercedes Lackey - A Ghost of a Chance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

leisure. Just what Stara had done to deserve such a life eluded Rune-but Stara
seemed to feel quite strongly that she deserved it. And had gone on at aggrieved
and shrill length about it last night. . . .
Rune yawned again, and swept the last of the night's trod-in dirt out into the
road. It would, of course, find its way right back inside tonight; only in the
great cities were the streets paved and kept clean. It was enough that the road
through the village was graveled and graded, from one end to the other. It kept
down the mud, and kept ruts to a minimum.
As well wish for Stara to become a pious churchgoer as to wish for a paved road.
The second was likelier to occur than the first.
Rune propped the broom in a corner by the fireplace and emptied the ashes and
clinkers into the ash-pit beneath the fireplace floor. Every few months the
candle-maker came to collect them from the cellar; once a year the inn got a
half-dozen bars of scented soap in exchange. A lot of the inn's supplies came
from exchange; strawberries for manure, hay and straw for use of the donkey and
pony, help for room and board and clothing.
There were four folk working under that exchange right now; of the six employees
only two, Annie Cook and Tarn Hostler, received wages. The rest got only their
rooms, two suits of clothing each year, and all they could eat. While Rune had
been too young to be of much help, she'd had to share her mother's room, but now
that she was pulling her share of her load, she had a room to herself. There
wasn't a door, just a curtain, and there was no furniture but the pallet she
slept on, but it was hers alone, and she was glad of the privacy. Not that Stara
ever brought men up to her room-she wouldn't have dared; even the easy-going
Rose would not have put up with that-but it was nice to be able to pull the
curtain and pretend the outside world didn't exist.
Provided, of course, Stara didn't whine all night. There was no escaping that.
With the fireplace swept and logs laid ready to light, Rune fetched a pail of
water, a bit of coarse brown soap, and a rag from the kitchen, with a nod to
Granny, who sat in the corner peeling roots. Annie Cook was nowhere in sight;
she was probably down in the cellar. From the brick ovens in the rear wall came
a wave of heat and the mouth-watering smell of baking bread. Rune swallowed hard
as her stomach growled. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and dinner too far
away. She was always hungry these days, probably because she was growing like a
sapling-the too-short cuffs of her shirt and breeches gave ample evidence of
that.
If I hurry up, maybe I can get Granny to give me a bit of cheese and one of
yesterday's loaf-ends before Annie makes them all into bread pudding.
With that impetus in mind, Rune quickly hauled the tables and benches away from
the walls, got the benches down in place, and went to work on the tabletops,
scouring with a will. Fortunately there weren't any bad stains this time; she
got them done faster than she'd expected, and used the last of the soapy water
to clean herself up before tossing the bucketful out the door.
But when she returned the bucket to the kitchen, Annie was back up from her
journey below.
Her stomach growled audibly as she set the bucket down, and Annie looked up
sharply, her round face red with the heat from the oven. "What?" she said, her
hair coming loose from its pins and braids, and wisping damply about her head.
"You can't be hungry already?"
Rune nodded mutely, and tried to look thin and pathetic.