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

"Then you've no time to be thirsty." Rokelle takes a deep pull of the warm, spiced wine.
"Any news of interest?" asks the Marshall.
"There is always news, your grace. But where to begin? Perhaps with the White Wizards. The
great road is well past the midpoint of the Easthorns, and now they are building a port city on
the Great North Bay, where the town of Lydiar used to be."
"What happened to the Duke of Lydiar?"
"What happens to anyone who defies the White Wizards? Chaos . . . destruction." The minstrel
takes a smaller sip of the wine and reaches for a slice of the white cheese on the plate before
him.
"And those who supposedly revere order? The Black ones?"
Rokelle shrugs. "Who can say? Destruction is so much easier than order."


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A number of the older guards have left the tables below, but the younger women at the front
tables continue to pour from the wine pitchers. Creslin glances across the tables, hoping for a
glimpse of Fiera's short blond hair, but he does not see the junior guard. His ears miss the next
few sentences, until he realizes that Fiera is no longer in the hall, if indeed she has been there
at all.
"Ah, yes . . . well, the wizards and the Duke of Montgren seem to have come to some sort of
agreement, now that the Duke has completed his fortification of Vergren and Land's end-"
"Land's End? Out on Reduce?" asks the Marshall. "Montgren has claimed Recluce for generations,
your grace."
"An empty claim," snorts Aemris. "A huge, dry, and forlorn island. Just right for a few coastal
fishing villages."
"It's easily ten times the size of Montgren," observes the Marshall. "But neither the Nordlans
nor the Hamorians were able to make their colonies pay. Montgren's claim was never disputed
because no one ever wanted the place. The fact that the Duke has committed anything there is . .
." She breaks off the sentence.
"I thought the Duke of Montgren was connected to the Tyrant of Sarronnyn," Creslin volunteers.
Aemris and the Marshall rum toward him, both sets of eyes cold at his statement.
"He is, lad," responds the minstrel, "but Sarronnyn looks down on him because he's a man with a
tabletop kingdom, and he's angry because the Sarronese won't give him more than token support
against Fairhaven. He claims that he's the only one left who hasn't caved in and joined the White
Wizards."
"Is that true?" asks Creslin.
"Ah ..." smiles the minstrel, with an odd and wrong smile, "he is but a man, and who is to say
what exactly is true? It is certain that he pays Sarronnyn no tribute, and it is also certain that
he has increased his army and the tax levies, to the point that his peasants, those who can, are
leaving their fields for Spidlar and Gallos."
"It's that bad?" asks Aemris, turning her eyes from Creslin to Rokelle.
The minstrel does not answer immediately but instead takes another long sip of the lukewarm
wine. Llyse refills the empty cup. "Is it that bad?" repeats the guard captain. Rokelle shrugs.
"You know what I know." The Marshall nods slowly and looks toward Aemris. "What about Jellico?"
asks Llyse. "Last year a traveler said that the city was being rebuilt."
"It is not as grand as Fairhaven, but far more welcoming to those who sing," observes Rokelle,
between mouthfuls of cheese. "You should see the stonework ..."
Creslin lets the man's words drift by as he considers what he has heard this night: the guards