"Patricia A. McKillip - Riddlemaster 1 - Riddle Master of Hed" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

clear the tables, lay the cloths, reset them, fill pitchers of milk and wine, have them fix platters
of meat, cheese, fruit and vegetables in the kitchen, braid your hair, put your shoes on and
get the mud off the floor. The traders are coming."
"Oh, Morgon..." Tristan wailed. Morgon turned to Eliard.
"And you ride to east Hed and tell Wyndon to get his grain to Tol."
"Oh, Morgon. That's a day's ride!"
"I know. So go."
They stood unmoving, their faces flushed, while Morgon's farmers looked on in unabashed
amusement. They were not alike, the three children of Athol of Hed and Spring Oakland.
Tristan, with her flighty black hair and small, triangular face, favored their mother. Eliard, two
years younger than Morgon, had Athol's broad shoulders and big bones, and his fair,
feathery hair. Morgon, with his hair and eyes the color of light beer, bore the stamp of their
grandmother, whom the old men remembered as a slender, proud woman from south Hed:
Lathe Wold's daughter. She had had a trick of looking at people the way Morgon was
gazing at Eliard, remotely, like a fox glancing up from a pile of chicken feathers. Eliard
puffed his cheeks like a bellows and sighed.
"If I had a horse from An, I could be there and back again by supper."
"I'll go," said Cannon Master. There was a touch of color on his face.
"I'll go," Eliard said.
"No. I want... I haven't seen Arin Amory for a while. Ill go." He glanced at Morgon.
"I don't care," Morgon said. "Just don't forget why you're going. Eliard, you help with the
loading at Tol. Grim, I'll need you with me to barter-the last time I did it alone, I nearly traded
three plow horses for a harp with no strings."
"If you get a harp," Eliard interrupted, "I want a horse from An."
"And I have to have some cloth from Herun," Tristan said. "Morgon, I have to have it. Orange
cloth. Also I need thin needles and a pair of shoes from Isig, and some silver buttons, and--"
"What," Morgon demanded, "do you think grows in our fields?"
"I know what grows in our fields. I also know what I've been sweeping around under your bed
for six months. I think you should either wear it or sell it. The dust is so thick on it you can't
even see the colors of the jewels."
There was silence, brief and unexpected, in the hall. Tristan stood with her arms folded, the
ends of her braids coming undone. Her chin was raised challengingly, but there was a hint of
uncertainty in her eyes as she faced Morgon. Eliard's mouth was open. He closed it with a
click of teeth.
"What jewels?"
"It's a crown," Tristan said. "I saw one in a picture in a book of Morgon's. Kings wear them."
"I know what a crown is." He looked at Morgon, awed. "What on earth did you trade for that?
Half of Hed?"
"I never knew you wanted a crown," Cannon Master said wonderingly. "Your father never had
one. Your grandfather never had one. Your--"
"Cannon," Morgon said. He raised his hands, dropped the heels of them over his eyes. The
blood was high in his face. "Kern had one."
"Who?"
"Kern of Hed. He would be our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.
No. One more great. It was made of silver, with a green jewel in it shaped like a cabbage.
He traded it one day for twenty barrels of Herun wine, thereby instigating--"
"Don't change the subject," Eliard said sharply. "Where did you get it? Did you trade for it?
Or did you..." He stopped. Morgon lifted his hands from his eyes.
"Did I what?"
"Nothing. Stop looking at me like that. You're trying to change the subject again. You traded