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

blade is in his hand.
"Well, well ... he has some nerve, if not much in the way of intelligence ..." The grating
voice is that of Dreric.
Nertryl says nothing, his eyes fixed upon Creslin's.
Creslin smiles, remembering the sessions with Aemris and Heldra, and his blade moves without
his eyes moving.
Nertryl steps back, involuntarily, at the nick on his forearm, then moves forward.
Creslin's blade flashes, almost faster than his thoughts, and the long blade lies upon the
white gravel.
Nertryl holds his right arm as heavy red wells through his fingers and over the gray silks.
Dreric's mouth is still open as Creslin steps forward, blade flickering.
"... you wouldn't . . . barbarian ..."
The sword caresses the blond man's cheek, and two thin lines of red appear.
"That should be enough, Lordlet Dreric, to remind you that insulting one's betters is
dangerous." Creslin bows to Nertryl. "My apologies, of a sort, to you. You might also remember
that the Guards of Westwind are far better at this than I am. I am merely a poor Consort-Assign."
Creslin turns to the open-mouthed lad. "Let's go. I detest the stench of blood." He swallows as
he thinks about the Marshall's reaction. She will not be pleased.
"Your grace ..."
"Which way?" Creslin starts toward the path by which they had entered the garden.
The herald shrugs and leads him back along the white-pebbled stones. Behind him, Creslin can
hear the rapid crunch of footsteps grow fainter. He forces himself to walk slowly after the
herald, wondering where Dreric is heading in such haste.
His own steps are deliberate. He will not be stampeded by any male harlot, especially one
without enough nerve to handle his own dirty work.
"Are you all right, your grace?"
"I'm fine. Just thinking." In silence they approach the golden-varnished door leading from the
garden into the palace proper. The herald opens the portal, which swings wide on the same well-


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oiled hinges as had the door in Creslin's room. Still wondering about Dreric, Creslin steps into
the relative gloom of the stonewalled corridor.
"Lord Creslin!"
Darkness swirls around him, as though night had descended from nowhere. His hand darts for his
blade. Before his fingers reach the hilt, they are jarred loose as he finds himself slammed
against the granite wall, with more than one pair of arms trying to pin him.
His thoughts reach for the winds, and the bitter gusts of winter suddenly swirl silks and
scarves, lashing them toward faces and eyes. A line of cold stabs at his arm even as he falls away
from the blade. The darkness lifts, and the winds depart, and he stands alone-except for the
herald, his eyes downcast.
"What . . . was . . . that?" Creslin gasps.
"What, your grace?" asks the boy, his eyes clear. "Someone called, and you stopped to talk with
her. I didn't see who. Since you stopped, I thought you knew her." The boy looks at Creslin's
disarray. "Are you all right?"
"You didn't see who it was?"
"No, your grace. I mean, not clearly. She was in the shadows."
Creslin looks back at the door. Although not as bright as the garden, the corridor is well lit