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

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"I know. You just don't always obey."
"I am a dutiful son and consort."
"See that it stays that way."
During their exchange of words, their steps have carried them down the hall and into a wider
hallway leading to the dining room of the Tyrant's palace. A herald, scarcely more than a boy, has
appeared to escort them into the Tyrant's presence.
As they turn into an even broader corridor, wide-glassed windows on the left show a garden with
a hedge of short, green-leaved bushes cut into a maze centering on a pond with a central fountain.
From around the fountain's statue-an unclothed man well-endowed in all parts-shoot jets of water
that arch upward before cascading into the pond.
The wall to the right of the two from Westwind is of pale pink granite, smoothed and polished.
Gold-fringed tapestries depicting life in ancient Sarronnyn hang against the stone, a space
perhaps equal to three paces between each scene.
Creslin, having studied the hangings earlier in the afternoon, ignores them, instead fixing his
eyes on the doorway ahead, where a pair of armed women guard the entrance to the dining room.
The Marshall waits as the herald steps into me hall. Creslin waits with her, still a half-pace
back.
"The Marshall of Westwind!" announces the young herald. "Accompanied by the consort-assign."
The Marshall nods and they step inside, following the herald toward the long table upon the
dais.
"... handsome lad."
". . .a blade yet ... but can he use it?"
"... like to see his work with the other blade."
"... too feminine. Looks like he trained as a guard."
Creslin purses his lips, trying not to hear the whispered comments of the court as he trails
the herald and the Marshall. Some of the comments are all too familiar. Two places are vacant at
the high table: one next to the Tyrant and one at the end, between two women.
"Your grace . . ."A serving boy pulls out a chair for Creslin.
Creslin nods to the graying woman at his right, then to the girl at his left. The girl's unruly
and shoulder-length mahogany curls flow from a silver hair band, and she is the only woman at the
table with long hair.
"Your grace," begins the older woman.
With regret, because he understands the seating, Creslin turns to her. "Yes?" His voice is
nearly musical, much as he rues it at times such as these.
"What might we call you?"
"Creslin, but no names are really necessary among friends." His stomach turns at the lie, and
he wonders if he will ever be able to twist the truth, as he has been taught, without paying his
own personal price. His eyes flicker to the center of the table, where the man to the left of the
Tyrant has raised his knife.
The others turn to the sectioned pearapples on the yellow china plates before them, and Creslin
lifts his knife to pare the sections into even smaller slices.
"Do all men in Westwind wear blades?" asks the older woman.
"Your grace," he defers, "Westwind is upon the Roof of the World, and all those who leave her
walls must beware of the elements and the beasts that brave them. The Marshall would leave no soul
unprotected, but was generous enough to grant my request to be able to protect myself."
"You appear rather . . . athletic."
Creslin smiles, and his stomach turns yet again. "Appearances may be deceiving, your grace."