"Julian May - Boreal Moon 01 - Conqueror's Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (May Julian)

thin man with finely drawn, unreadable features, whose nose jutted like an axe-blade. Chestnut hair thickly streaked with grey fell to his shoulders. Unlike most of the other men, he
was clean-shaven.

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20document...aar/Julian%20May%20-%20Boreal%20Moon%2001%20-%20Conqueror's%20Moon.html (16 of 243)20-2-2006 21:47:26
Julian, May - Boreal Moon 01 - Conqueror's Moon


Beorbrook spotted the table of drinks by the window and strode to it purposefully, hauling his dented old silver cup out of his belt-wallet. “Is that a Snapevale Stillery flagon that I
spy?”

“Leave be for a moment, Parli,” said Tanaby, “until the Prince Heritor arrives.”

“How sober do we have to be for this bloody mystery confab anyhow?” the earl marshal muttered. He was a hale man in early middle age, broad rather than tall, with muscular legs
grown bandy from horseback riding, and enormous gnarled hands. Blue eyes cold as an Ice Moon sky were sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. His beard was also black,
although his hair had gone snow-white. He wore a doublet of dark blue leather, intricately worked, having stiff sleeve-wings that emphasized his extraordinary shoulders. His chain
of office was conspicuously absent.

“You must decide the need for a clear head yourself,” Tanaby told his longtime friend. “As for blood, there may be quantities of it in the offing if we here decide so.”

The marshal gave a grunt, and some of the others exchanged wary glances or small grim smiles. Except for Vanguard, none of those present were intimates of the prince. They knew
only that he favored some sort of retaliatory strike against Didion, and as Lord Constable of the Realm had the power to lead one even if the Privy Council balked—provided that the
king himself did not expressly forbid it. Tanaby’s carefully worded messages bringing these northern nobles to a secret meeting had sparked battle-fever in some and skepticism in
others, but all had agreed to listen to the prince and decide whether or not to support him in the undertaking.

A fire burned in the broad greystone hearth, before which were sixteen common stools, arranged in a semicircle. In the middle was a single collapsible field-chair fashioned of carved
walnut and faded brocade, fronted by a small table. All of the usual furnishings of the solar, save for the sideboard with the liquor, had been removed.

“I realize we aren’t here for a cozy chat, my lord duke,” drawled Lady Zeandrise, eyeing the comfortless seats. She still had spurs on her booted feet. “But is it necessary for us to
perch like a gang of tomtits on fenceposts during this conference?”

There were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, “The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to participate in the
prince’s venture.”

“I see.” The baroness kept a straight face. “Well, it’s been a dull year in Marley. The harvest’s safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf’s Breath, and my knights and thanes
are restless and in need of distraction.” She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. “A pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch.”

Old Baron Toborgil Silverside said, “King Achardus of Didion and his starving people must take faint comfort in such beauty.”

“Famine smite the lot of them dead,” growled Beorbrook, “and may a hundred thousand vultures shite their bones!”

“And so let it be forever,” Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.

A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal’s two elder sons and Ramscrest’s youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal delegation presenting
the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion. Ramscrest’s brother had left a widow and three small children. As for Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in
battle at twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan would ever fill his
father’s boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that the office and its great perquisites would pass out of the Beorbrook family with Parlian’s demise.

All at once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and his wheaten hair
and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked under each arm and a corkscrew dangling
from his right hand.