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

for those times when the issue matters."
Her blue eyes are as hard as the dark stones of Westwind. The contrast between their adamancy
and the green silks that flow around the lithe muscles-muscles she has developed and maintained
over nearly four decades of training and warfare-reminds Creslin of the snow leopards that skulk
the edges of the Roof of the World.
He inclines his head as he removes his green-leather sleeveless vest and lays it on the bed. "I
will be ready in a moment."
"Thank you." She steps back through the entry to her suite but does not close the heavy oak
door behind her.
Creslin tosses his flannel shirt next to the vest, then strips off the leather trousers.
"Where did you get that?" asks Galen, pointing to a thin line of red down the consort's left
arm.
"Blade exercises. Where else?"
"Your grace, does the Marshall-"
"She knows, but she can't object to my wanting to be able to take care of myself." Creslin
frowns as he holds up the dark green silk trousers, then begins to ease his well-muscled legs into
them. "I keep telling her that if I'm too emotional I must need the training even more. She just
shakes her head, but so far she hasn't actually forbidden it. Once in a while I have to smile, but
most of the time I can appeal to reason. I mean, how would it look if the son of the most feared
warrior in the Westhorns doesn't even know which edge of the blade is which?"
Galen shivers, although the room is not cold.
Creslin pulls on the shirt and arranges it as he looks in the mirror.
"Your grace . . ." ventures Galen.
"Yes, Galen? Which fold did I do wrong?"
Galen's hands deftly readjust the collar, then add the silver-framed emerald collar pin
provided by the Marshall.
"Do I have to wear that, too? I feel like property." Galen says nothing.
"All right, I am property, courtesy of the damned Legend."
"Your grace ..." mumbles Galen, his hands not quite going to his mouth.
"Are you ready, Creslin?" The voice comes from beyond the door.
"Yes, your grace. As soon as I retrieve my blade."
"Creslin-"
"Galen, would not any eastern male wear a blade?"
There is no response, and a faint smile crosses Creslin's lips as he buckles the soft leather
of the formal sword-belt into place. The blade, the short sword of the guards of Westwind, remains
securely sheathed therein.
Creslin steps through the connecting door. The guard follows him with her eyes, but he ignores
her as he joins his mother the Marshall.
They walk out through the carved doorway of the guest-wing entrance. Creslin moves to the
Marshall's left, a half-pace back, knowing that is as far as he can push.
"Creslin," begins the Marshall in the hard-edged soft voice that is not meant to carry, "do you
understand your role here?"
"Yes, your grace. I am to be charming and receptive and not to volunteer anything but trivia. I
may sing, if the occasion arises, but only a single song, and an ... inoffensive one. I am not to
touch steel unless I am in mortal danger, which is rather unlikely. And I am not to comment upon
the negotiations. "
"You did listen." Her voice is wry.
"I always listen, your grace."