"L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 05 - The Towers of the Sunset" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

statue in the midst of the marble-walled pond.
"Aldron?" asks Creslin, gesturing toward the well-endowed male figure.
"So it's said, your grace, but no one knows for certain."
Creslin turns at the sound of footsteps and a voice saying, "Ah, I do believe it is the
honorable consort-design of Westwind. You know, Nertyrl, the one who had nothing to say at the
banquet."
The speaker is Dreric, the broad, blond companion of the unnamed redheaded woman. He wears
matching royal-blue silks that under the white-gold sun set off his tan and his flowing golden
hair. Beside him is an older man, wearing gray silks, a pointed and drooping mustache, and a long
blade.
Although he smiles faintly, Creslin has nothing to say to either man, particularly since he has
no doubt that any wit he might display would be far less practiced than that of two men who have


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spent a lifetime mastering the innuendo.
"Good day, I say." Dreric's voice oozes from his lips, honey-coated.
"A pleasant day, indeed," agrees Creslin, knowing that he cannot refuse to respond to a direct
greeting.
"He wears a blade, you see," comments Dreric, with a pronounced look at the older man. "Perhaps
because his other blade is less than adequate, you think, Nertryl?"
"That would be for the ... women ... to decide, your grace."
"Ah, yes . . . assuming that women are even-No matter ..."
Creslin swallows as Dreric halts perhaps four paces away. Dreric turns his back on Creslin and
begins to study a miniature pink rose set in a waist-high box of white marble.
"Your grace," whispers the herald, tugging at Creslin's sleeve.
Creslin remains immobile.
"Do you think he really merits the title, Nertryl? Grace? Ah, well . . . what we must put up
with to obtain a little more security. We could do him a favor, I suppose. Maggio likes boys, the
thin ones like this mountain . . . lordlet. Do you suppose we could manage an introduction?"
Creslin can feel his face flush, not from the direct sunlight.
"I do believe he shows some interest, your grace." Nertryl's voice is simultaneously flat and
languid.
"One must be so dreadfully direct with . . . mountain . . . nobility."
Creslin turns to the herald. "It is truly amazing to hear such vulgarity posturing under polite
language. I would like to see an area of the garden not spoiled by . . ." He cannot finish the
sentence.
There is a moment of silence.
Creslin turns as a hand touches his sleeve.
"I do believe you have slighted my lord. Grievously," admonishes Nertyrl. The smile on his face
is not mirrored in his eyes.
"One cannot slander a toad," snaps Creslin. "They live in the mud."
"Your grace . . ." whispers the herald.
The long blade clears the scabbard.
Creslin swallows.
"Well ... do you wish to beg his grace's pardon . . . humbly, and upon your knees?" Nertryl's
voice remains hard and languid.
"I think not." As he speaks, Creslin steps back, and his own shorter and fractionally wider