"08 - Colors of Chaos.palmdoc.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

"Heralt?" called Cerryl. "We're going over to The Golden Ram. Why don't you join us?"
The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. "I'm tired. I thought I'd just eat in the Halls."
"All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese," Cerryl pointed out. "You don't have to stay with us long, and it won't be that late. I have morning duty, remember?"
Heralt offered a shy smile. "The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb."
"Dried lamb." Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. "Any form of lamb ..."
"Your feelings about mutton are well-known," said Lyasa. "Let's go. I'm hungry."
"Well..." Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.
The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage- both on their way out together-nodded.
"Good evening." Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.
Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar's elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, "Drinks?"
"Ale," said Cerryl.
"Ale," agreed Faltar.
"Make that three."
"Four," added Lyasa.
"Fare's on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl's three."
Cerryl settled on the fowl, as did Faltar. Heralt had ribs and Lyasa stew, and the server with the swirled braid on the back of her head slipped back to the kitchen.
"You once said that your father was a merchant in Kyphros." Cerryl glanced at Heralt. "Do you see him much?"
Heralt laughed. "Kyphrien is rather far to travel... and he's not one for sending scrolls. My sister and I exchange messages, but not often."
"Here you be ... four ales. That be eight."
Cerryl added three coppers to the pile. The server smiled and swept up a silver's worth of coppers. Lyasa had added the other extra copper.
"I wonder how people in Kyphros feel about the new mountains Jeslek is raising," mused Cerryl. He took the barest sip of the ale.
"The wool factors are worried." Heralt took a healthy swallow from his mug. "They say the Analerians have lost some of their flocks and that will make wool scarce." He shrugged. "Axista says it won't help prices, though, not so long as the Black Isle sends wool to Spidlar. That worries Father."
"Isn't their wool more expensive?"
"Not after all the tariffs on his. Or not much."
"Then, the road taxes and tariffs bother him?" Cerryl's tone was interested but not sharp.
"They bother everyone. They make prices higher, and people can buy less." Heralt took another sip of ale. "You didn't used to be interested in trade, Cerryl."
"I figure I'd better learn. That's what gate duty is all about, isn't it? Watching trade and trying to see who's smuggling?" Cerryl glanced to the white-blond Faltar. "You have any smugglers lately?"
"Not for an eight-day or so," Faltar mumbled as he finished a mouthful of ale. "This is better than Hall swill any day."
"More costly, as well," countered the curly-haired mage.
"You didn't mention smugglers," Cerryl prompted. "What were they trying to sneak past you?"
"Hides. Uncured hides to sell to the tanners," said Faltar.
"There can't be that much profit in hides," suggested Heralt. "Why smuggle them?"
"Because," added Lyasa, brushing a strand of jet-black hair off her forehead, "some gate guards have trouble discovering things that aren't made of metal or hard materials."
"And some don't look at that hard," added Faltar dryly. "From what I've heard."
From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend-because he's a friend despite Anya? Or because he's kept supporting you? Still... Faltar's relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blond mage.
"How did you sense the hides?" asked Heralt.
"I didn't really sense them," admitted Faltar. "But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look."
"They still couldn't have made more than a gold or so," protested Heralt.
"A single gold is more than some folk see in a year," Cerryl said.
"Spoken like a man who knows," said Lyasa.
"I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener's apprentice," Cerryl admitted. "The same when I worked at the mill." He laughed. "But I was at the mill a whole lot longer."
"I think I'd rather be a mage." Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.
"Two fowls, ribs, and a stew." The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. "That be ten."
Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury-despite Faltar's mathematicks.
"Thank you all." The serving woman scooped up the coins.
Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.
Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. "He only appears neat."
"Food's better than talk," mumbled Faltar. "Specially after a long duty day."
Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth. Somehow it was both juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn't matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he'd had at Furenk's and Leyladin's, The Golden Ram's fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.
"This is better than Hall lamb any day," Faltar added.